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 around 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 waiting to get a close look at van Gogh's "Sunflowers". Insane yellows, brighter than the sun. Glowing forever in our hearts. 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.