It was supposed to happen by now. The dopamine fields strained to collapse were supposed to flare and blossom to life, if only briefly, like a wildflower bloom in Death Valley after the rarest of rainfall. Not a sustainable harvest, but a promise of something worthwhile. The clouds are gunmetal gray and the field crunches under foot but if I just keep walking the moisture regime may eventually change. Topography may be more forgiving. The coins in my pocket more lustrous. The people I meet will still care about coins and none will remember the things I’ve done.
Chad Rutter is an emerging poet originally from rural Nebraska now residing in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He received a BFA from the Minneapolis College of Art and Design and an MFA from the University of Minnesota, Twin Cities, both in visual art. His work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Rust and Moth, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Right Hand Pointing.