August 27~ JOSH WALKER

Welcome back to SHINE international poetry series, where today we're treated to three poems by Oklahoma-based poet Josh Walker. I appreciate his commentary on social and emotional issues woven gracefully through these pieces. Thank you, Josh, for sharing your work with SHINE!

The Time I Forgot to Save the World

Grandma’s on Facebook talking cabals.
Cousin’s on X saying people just trying to live are immoral.
The preacher on TV says I’m going to hell
then pulls a gun and tells me to put money in an envelope.
The electric company calls:
they caused the outage,
so now I owe more on my bill.
At the gas station,
a nine-year-old calls the homeless man a Marxist.
I buy the junkie’s beer
to stop her screaming at the clerk.
“We’re out of your smokes,” he says.
“Here’s the expensive knockoff.
Want scratchers too, sir?”
Little McCarthy’s still yelling about capitalism
at the war vet outside.
The doctor says lower your stress
or you won’t make it.
Also—your premium’s up.
You’ll need to pay in advance.
Driving home,
a pimp and two girls shout at cars.
It’s 3:45 p.m.
I turn on the TV
there’s my childhood hero
selling used cars and erection pills.
They say I should quit
as I light another cold, sweet cigarette.
Maybe I’ll quit tomorrow.
And maybe then,
I’ll save the world.

The Calm

I sit in absolute peace.
I remember the words you screamed that night.
Birds chirp; the wind sways soft
“I hate you! He’s better in bed than you! Go to hell!”
I sink beneath the water—never felt safer.
“You’ll die alone, you fat trailer trash.”
Neighbor kids sing while skipping rope
“How can you just sit there quietly? No smart rhymes now?”
This might be the best lemonade I’ve ever tasted.
“You’re worthless gutter trash, just like your dad.”
Burgers sizzle on the grill—time to dry off, get out
“I wish you’d just drop dead.”
All those moments led to this:
warm sun, a swimming pool,
a plate handed with a smile.
You texted yesterday—can I send $90 for your light bill?
I bite the burger.
And barely remember you.

I Still Set the Coffee for Two

You left like water slipping through a glass I didn’t know was cracked.
I held you with both hands
tight enough to bruise,
gentle enough to beg.

Mornings still know your weight.
The couch sags in your shape.
The kettle whistles like it’s calling your name
but it isn’t.
It’s just steam.

Last night I folded your sweater again.
Not because I thought you’d wear it
but because I still remember how it smelled
when you loved me.

I don’t cry when I say your name.
Not because it doesn’t hurt,
but because it does
in ways tears can’t reach.

You are a ghost
I invited in
and now every door in this house
forgets how to close.

Joshua Walker is a freelance poet based in Oklahoma City. His work appears or is forthcoming in Potomac Review, Southern Florida Poetry Journal, Solarpunk Magazine, Libre, Kelp Journal, and others. He is the recipient of a 2025 Bridport Prize Bursary and publishes independently also know as The Last Bard, with over 310,000 readers across platforms.

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