Robbie Gamble



What is it that will touch you:
a safe falling from the sky
a bitch slap
a mendicant
a sunrise?

I met a man shot seven times in a drive-by:
thigh, chest wall, shoulders, bicep, buttocks
a corona of metal grazing the flesh.

He was a happy man
and I couldn’t help myself—
I rubbed his forehead for luck.




“Contact” was originally published in The Wax Paper, Spring 2017