The McKinley Review Magazine

Mother's Day

By: Chris Nold | Posted on: March 2018

after a few laps

we find ourselves wondering

why we race at all”

– anonymous, for Chris












god, what was the name of that girl

I brought back to the office last night

I guess these sunglasses are mine to keep then

useless today but essential nonetheless

a traveling salesman artificially awake

a town I’ve never seen the rain an added effect

futile attempt supermarket bouquet in disarray

umbrella gone awry shivering & seated

in a church where they served me

good black decaf from the rectory

and the music they played upstairs

was loud and fast

a kind stranger said he’d wake me before

the train arrived and I believed him

a luxury though sleep

sandwiched between two

one singing Spanish hymns

the other spitting cherry pits into her palm

almost rhythmically

the elements delay commuters

distressing headlines serve as my protector

politically ambient yet I feel

lost in the weeds so to speak

instead sketching out the failed itineraries

of the vaguest days & editing irrational loves

for my submission to be the writer-in-residence

of the fast food district where

here at Wendy’s the chili

is still warm and benevolent

and when did they get hip to the stylings of New Order

while everyone I know is busy resisting themselves

to dust on feeds for all to see

ambivalent apparatus I still hate to even have

my picture taken I get that from my mother

among other things

her life lived offline

she may never see this

but she should know that

I do miss her cooking

when the rains fall hardest.

Chris Nold is a Brooklyn based writer currently at odds with the Poetry Society of New York & its subsidiaries. He has been published in various publications and acts as a local vigilante.