Poetry from Brenton Booth

Angel at 1AM

I woke at 1 a.m. dryer than
a desert and went to the
kitchen for a glass of water.
I noticed her naked, slowly
brushing her long blonde
hair in front of the bathroom
mirror. Ava Maria sung by
Sumi Jo playing on her phone.
Her tiny body and face more
beautiful than the angel from
the song. I went back to the
bedroom before she noticed
me. No longer thirsty. Feeling
closer to God than ever.

A Poem for the Young
Woman that Jumped
off the Coca Cola 
Building at 8AM on 
a Sunday Morning

I just want you to 
     know. Even though 
  the majority 

of the large 
     crowd gathered 

your bodies only 
     thoughts were to 
  take photos 

to post online. 
     There was someone 
  who cared.

The Working Poet

I was sitting alone
in the lunchroom
at work watching
Muay Thai on my
phone when Kerri
tapped me on the
shoulder with a
considerable smile.
"I heard you write 
poetry! Is that true?"
he said. I'd never
seen him so happy.
"No, I said, "whoever
told you must have
mistaken me for
someone else."
"Makes sense. I
wrote poetry until
I started working
here. You simply
can't write working
at a job like this.
There is never
anything to write
about," he said
dejectedly leaving
the room. I thought
about everything
he has said. Writing
this poem shortly
after. My fourth of
the week. 

Vincent's Sunflowers

I am in
a long line

of people

to get a
close look

at van



than the


in our 

The Poorest Taxi Driver in Bangkok

In Bangkok the taxi drivers with older
cars that can't afford to tip the hotel
concierges sit outside hotels for hours,
sometimes days, waiting for a fare. I
watched one driver leaning against his
ancient taxi the entire time I stayed
there. Smoking cigarette after cigarette.
Watching the newer taxis get all the
fares. On my final day I asked him to
take me to the airport. He immediately 
threw his cigarette in the gutter and
loaded my one bag in the boot. "You
American?" he said. "Almost," I said.
"Australian!" "Yes," I said. When we
arrived I had a few hundred dollars in
American notes left in my wallet. I 
handed them all to him. He quickly took 
the money with a big smile, removed 
the fare, giving me back the rest. "Keep 
it all!" I said. "No, no. It wouldn't be 
right," he said. Flying home, I thought 
of his smile when I handed him the 
notes. Imagining the look on his face 
when he discovered the rest. 

Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry of his has appeared in New York Quarterly, Chiron Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Main Street Rag, Naugatuck River Review, Heavy Feather Review and Nerve Cowboy. He has two full length collections available from Epic Rites Press. 

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