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Clint Smith

Clint Smith has been described as peripatetic, having lived in multiple cities between New York and Raleigh during the past six years and being a joyful traveler in Eastern Europe. Staying up all night with his newborn daughter has afforded him all the time to construct and deconstruct sentences that he wishes in between thoughts of sleep and of what her personality will be like.

A Minor Depression

Old friends at whose bars I made gin and
clementine soda spritzers rouse me for work

‘I freelance on the side,’ ‘I write,
pull the twigs from gutters,’ ‘It’s like I did in high school
when we wanted Friday night money’

Towns of elitists speaking of Amsterdam and canals
have their closing cigar stores, their starving flannel men

I looked up once to the vice presidents, they spoke with ease
to women, moved with buttery smoothness

I could taste their happiness when I was a temp,
answering twenty people who did not know my name

Now what do I do, I’ve become the old goat
A father that children make pictures of

At night we rub blankets together and hope
an economic mirage emerges like a whorehouse on stilts

I write you back. ‘I am in between positions now,
at the agencies I call myself the in-between man.’

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