Country Music
an online journal of poetry
Home Issue 8 Contents Author Bios Archives Manifesto Submit

Ron Riekki





The cat on the bed looks dead;
that's how comfortable it is
and my back is killing me
from my three months of EMT work,
an inability to lie comfortably
and Sarah sleeps in the other room,
her groom, Luke, away at work
until six a.m. at the sand mine
and I'm crashing for a week
on my way to L.A. from Miami
in hopes that there's work there,
anywhere. Anyway, I'm in swim
trunks listening to Jake
Gyllenhaal get interviewed
by George Stroumboulopoulos
about mastering British accents
and I haven't said one word today,
except to dogs, Annie and Loretta,
yelling at them to quit rubbing
upside down against a dead fox
on WPA Road while about one
hundred goats, no exaggeration,
stood by a fence, staring at us
as if we were the stupidest things
on Earth.


Ron Riekki responds to art, economics, and Country Music not paying him for his poems.