It’s an old barn of a place
or maybe just an old barn.
Off to the side of this backcountry
road, more crushed gravel than asphalt,
more dried mud than crushed gravel.

The building half-hidden among
a sea of dead grass and weeds,
where once there might have been
whiskers of wheat, beards of ripe corn,
plowed fields stitched together

in patchwork. It’s seen better days,
the only thing to give it away the sign:
Danceland – World’s only Floor Built
on Horsehair. You’ll Think You’re Dancing on Air.
And another that reads:

Dinners Served. Bring Your Best Girl.
The roof has fallen in on itself

* poem, in its entirety, is available in the printed version of the current issue.


Richard Luftig is a professor emeritus of educational psychology and special education at Miami University in Ohio who now resides in California. His poems have appeared in numerous literary journals in Canada, the United States, Europe, Asia, and Australia, and his poetry collection A Grammar for Snow has been published by Unsolicited Press.


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