Haste, published February 2020 in Roanoke Review. HASTE Philip Newton You can no longer get there and if you did you wouldn’t know it When you arrived it would only be a day or a night, in a city like the others, netted harboring habits, drug stores full of statues, pallid food hushed and forlorn glances And when you left this place there would be only an empty spot where another empty spot had been A place for shoes A drunken recollection Something always left behind Like a cat, a needle or that one red thing you can’t quite recall except that it was in fact quite red