By Elliot Greiner

R + N 4ever

Their initials are scooped
into the curb of the
grocery’s parking lot,
the remains of a promise
collecting age,
the glances of passerby.

I imagine the
authors crouching
there, fat-fingering
into concrete their
receipt from having

not thinking of
the day when the letters
would weather into
nooks for dirt,
and the pavement would
cease to sparkle.

Still, how smart they were
to write it down.

Olduvai Gorge Overlook

That evening I watched the sunset
loom wide, turning gold the hundred
mile prospect of brush and sand.
I saw starlings find their
day-end perch, lizards scurry,
a spider wait; the quiet of their
lives extending like a taproot
into the moment, numbing the
distance of the mountains,
the plain; their stillness holding
the world in its reflection.

Why I Am Grateful to the Man Who Held the Door for Me

It isn’t due to a fear of germs,
or because of a sore wrist,
but rather that he thought I was
worth the trouble of balancing
that box of books in his arms,
the door with his foot.

Deer at Sunrise

The morning comes together
slowly, finding sound before
light, the moon as a dull jewel.
At my window I see two deer
in the middle of the road, beating
traffic to the punch; their noses pressed
to the ground, their movement exotic in the
suburban quiet.

What’s the message in this I wonder,
the writer’s itchy reflex; sore for
a sudden shock of understanding that
never comes. At least not before
the start of a car sends them behind
the houses, casting their absence
over the scene like shadow; Dawn’s
gentle reminder that sometimes a
moment is all we ever get. 


About the Author:

Elliot Greiner is a writer based in Washington D.C. He has been published in Frogpond, Acorn, Red Moon Press, The Heron’s Nest, and Southern Knuckles.