Chris Callard

LAUGHLIN

Driving to Laughlin,
Getz playing non-stop.
The landscape is red through my sunglasses but brown with them off.
I pull to the shoulder at the Willow Springs Wash sign,
get out and take pictures of the black rocks sprouting from the ground.
The scrub brush, the sky, none of it noticed when I drove this route with her.
She wanted to get there fast and start winning at slots while I lost at craps.
She ate salads at the buffet while I inhaled fried chicken and meat loaf.
She was Bloody Marys at the bar poker machine as I sat in the sports book
draining scotch with baseball.
She wanted to see shows; Laughlin had few,
so she watched movies in the room during my Keno stakeouts.
We should’ve gone to Santa Barbara or Carlsbad or Cambria some of those times.
But she complained about cost and moist coastal air.
Instead we did the desert, staring out the window of our room at
Bullhead City across the great Colorado.
Now, when I hit Laughlin, I stroll the Riverwalk, which she thought
was tacky and commonplace.
I shoot photos of carp near the shore and ducks on the grass and
stray cats wandering around, which, with my highway shots,
eventually line the walls of my apartment.
Anymore I only play blackjack, since craps crapped me out
and the machines remind me of her.
I love Laughlin ’cause my cheap rooms are comped and it’s
Vegas before Vegas got ridiculous.
I stop on my way home in a wispy little town outside Needles
to grab a bite at a dusty diner.
I take my time.
The burgers are fair, nothing like when I grilled for her.
The overcooked patties, though, are serene in their way.

A DRAWER

I was cleaning out the desk drawer, so much clutter after so many years.
Lots of shit not worth keeping though it all seemed so vital to store.
Then there’s a BofA debit card that expired in 2014 and
promoted the Humane Society with a pic of a kitten and pup.
My brother’s, which I collected with his meager belongings in his
rented Vegas room after he passed in 2010 at 49.
He was kind and loved animals.
He was kind and loved people and people loved him even with his issues.
In 2025 I can finally let go of this plastic when the memories are still so pliant.
Happy, sad, dogs and cats, friends and family, life and death.
Nothing profound.
The details are private and don’t need to be
splayed across some dumb screen.
They do matter, though, somewhere, to those who care.
Just found my brother’s debit card.
Things are hard to decipher sometimes.
(Oh, I put it back in the drawer.)

Chris Callard lives in Long Beach, CA. His poems have appeared in Spillwords, The Writing Disorder, Ariel Chart, Witcraft, Cadence Collective, and One Sentence Poems. His short fiction in Maudlin House, Friday Flash Fiction, Bright Flash Literary Review, Witcraft, Ariel Chart, Gemini Magazine, Flash Fiction Magazine, A Story in 100 Words, and ZZyZxWriterZ. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and Best Small Fictions.