Prop Master 
  
  
 When I hide behind the curtain,
 I am
  
 not hiding in the conventional
 sense.
  
 I am working behind the scenes 
 and hiding
  
 my feelings for you.
 Red light
  
 shines on a clapboard
 army. 
  
 There is no huddle of young women
 awaiting 
  
 their return,
  
 flat and crudely painted when considered
 up close.
  
 I have nearly forgotten the relationship
 of prop
  
 to property.
  
 The plastic flowers are lovely
 but not
  
 mine to give away.
  
   
  
 Estate Sale
  
  
 His heirs want top dollar.
 They remember 
  
 when this forbidden junk
 summoned them, shooting sparks
  
 like candy with a lit fuse,
 like a weapon whispered 
  
 into existence by an older
 boy with sideburns.
  
 They can’t see that the kingdom
 they were promised
  
 stopped shooting sparks long before
 the old man’s heart.
  
 A John Wayne collector plate,
 a complete set of moon
  
 landing juice glasses
 abandoned, all brown horses,
  
 ran out of rocket fuel
 years ago.
  
 These are shells, nebulous
 and stretched across the sky,
  
 just firm enough to collect dust.
 These are souvenirs 
  
 from a country whose once proud
 borders have receded 
  
 to these two tables.
  
 
  
 Zorine, Queen of the Nudists #4
  
  
 It may be a strange little egg.
 It may be black dye or the unreal
 in a work of art that seeps
 through while the artist
  
 allows her trance its say. 
 It may be the brain injury
 sustained by tumbling dice
 or the nice breeze at once
  
 a permission and questioning
 that any permission is needed.
 Ms. Now and Mr. Soon swap bodies
 just as sure as if some mad
  
 doctor had seduced them 
 with imaginary science.  
  


   

Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has two new chapbooks: Simpler Times and Staring Down Miracles. His work has appeared in Poetry Northwest, Conduit, and Cream City Review.