Front Porch Review
A literary magazine for the young at heart and mind

Sometimes
even death can’t bear
another bus ride
between cold Midwestern towns
clothes that reek
of smoke and sweat.

Sometimes
death just wins
the toss of a coin
comes down with the flu
and wants
to get to bed early.

Sometimes
death just wants
to hear its song
sung over
and over
on the radio.

By Art Nahill

Art Nahill is an American doctor and writer currently living in New Zealand with his Kiwi wife and two boys. His poetry has appeared in print in both hemispheres; he recently published his first collection entitled A Long Commute Home. His interests include watching American politics from afar and plotting how to rescue poetry from the icy grip of academia. His e-mail address: