Down on the street two men in hurries
entered both sides of their Chevys.
Answered, what if no tomorrows?
Anything can happen when you drink
spilled coffee from the
saucer.
Down at the Minit Mart a dog with four more legs
had been bitten by a spider.
Next week he’ll splash page five of The Enquirer.
Out on the cloverleaf I circle.
Additions multiplying in the subdivisions total.
Riding with Fred
I wedge in among adjustable wrenches,
gas rags, ringlets of tire chains
weighing down what’s barely floorboards
as we almost must pedal, if there were pedals,
to get anywhere. Through holes everywhere
I see outside not even trying to get in.
Yes, there’s dust and puddle splash,
purpled leaves and pebbles. Don’t forget pebbles,
I hear him say. What he wants to say
with his gas pedal play and oversteering is
you’ll only get everywhere going like this
as he runs down the yield sign on the roundabout.
Going Anywhere
Do you know the way to San Jose?
asks Dionne in a song.
I always wanted her to sing about Cape Cod
but then somebody already had.
I think Dionne lends a certain je ne sais quoi
to the art of how to get places.
I think more of us could get to where we’re going
more melodically
if occasionally
we’d let ourselves get lost
in song. Then not everybody
has the voice of inquiry like Dionne.
Not everybody knows how to open themselves up,
let parts of the geographically known world in.
Only few of us can sing
like we’re going anywhere.
Becoming Legend
At some point in their lives just about everybody
wants to go to Hollywood to see stars. My point
is now! Just turned sixty, and as the pilot announces
we’re about to land in LA, I hear a big W H O O S H
and everywhere outside my window I see seaweed,
not palm trees. Others on board see seaweed too.
I’m here to see stars and I’ll be darned if that
isn’t young Lloyd Bridges from Sea Hunt snorkeling
with a dolphin and there, Jack Cousteau, skinny
and French as ever, and no, it can’t be, it is,
it’s Miss Esther Williams doing her famous butterflies,
and oh my gosh, I can hardly believe my eyes,
I see other planes out there buzzing around, diving
and swimming with mantas and hammerhead sharks
and the gi-normous finbacks, one with a baby, and look,
look, it’s the giant squid Architeuthis everyone has been
wanting to get a glimpse of. The pilot comes on again
and tells us we can now deboard and thank you
for flying Ocean Air. I make my way to the carousel. Where did these sunglasses I’m looking through come from?
And all of the flash bulbs and people with pens?
Oh, Miss Merman, it’s so wonderful to see you again!
Make Do
Sue wants to have a near-death experience
before she goes to the dentist and then shopping.
She wants to see who comes to her rescue
and will they get grossed out
by her tartar buildup and holey T.
Then who among them would not lift a finger
or put their lips to hers, pump her heart?
She’ll watch the whole thing from above
like she’s sitting on the ceiling. When she comes back,
that’s if she does, she’ll write a book and share
excerpts on Dr. Phil. Truth is, temporarily,
Sue’s lost her smile and could use a ride to the mall.
Tripping
Mars is in the mirror again and you
are so up in the air about the weather
and whether to fly or drive to Richmond.
It’s not until Thursday either will happen
but you know how nervous deep sleep can get
when end-of-tunnel light starts
strobing and the circuitry inside walls starts
chording and cat’s shadow can be seen
crossing the ceiling and then is when I’d start
unpacking.
Let Richmond
come to you.
Two
Deed
House has been
nudging her all week
to sharpen something.
Before it burns down
or gets condemned or
shuffled by a twister,
it wants to dictate
in not so many words
its memoir.
She laughs
right in its front porch.
Who wants to hear about
multiple gables?
What shack or shanty
on some back street
gives a shingle?
But since it’s sheltered her
all these many years,
she tells it, go ahead, spill.
Truth comes out
creak by creak.
Who would have guessed
you were hospice in the war?
Whorehouse after
when the mine reopened?
A church when the church
fell to its knees in a fire?
Crack house for two months
at the start of the new century?
She gets it
down on paper,
paginated for an agent
to flip through.
Find pop, curb appeal,
irregardless of location.
List it
a best seller.
Debunkers
Bob lives in a house with a bear
out every window. When he opens
the plantation shutters in the bedroom,
a bear. When he parts the café curtains in the pantry,
a bear. When he casts his eyes upward
through the skylight in the den,
a bear. A bear on the porch this morning
with its paw poised to ring. Bob lets him in,
offers him the recliner near the flat screen,
even flicks it on for him and the bear fractures
what looks like a big bear grin, doesn’t bristle
when Bob tries out his own big bear hug.
TV Land’s running a Gentle Ben marathon
sponsored by Smokey and his slogan.
Bear leaks out Goldilocks was a bottle blonde
and a little spoiled to boot. As for Ben
being gentle, he too was on the bottle.
Old Smokey was a nobody until somebody
discovered a body fit for denim and flannel.
All of Bob’s fantasies were debunked.
Chair bear exits, never to be heard from again.
His work in Bob’s little gingerbread was done.
Just Looking
Upon arrival I walk beneath it.
Make several unnecessary trips
to his half bath down the hall
so I can wink at it. Not once,
not yet, do I stop directly under,
look up into it. In his living room
I take a seat from where I will be
facing it. During conversation
my eyes grow big at it. My mouth
hangs open like a bucket
made to catch its drips, if it drips.
When asked if I’d like water, I say
no, a ladder, and he puts one under it.
I climb. He asks, you want to
dust it? Then’s when I find myself
as far away as I can get from it.
West Hollywood
Who comes into your house and tilts
the shades on all your fixtures,
looks in at the bulbs?
A watt inspector maybe?
At Sal’s house, it’s the termite guy,
the pizza guy but not the Chinese takeout guy,
the cable guy who makes a night of it.
When summer comes, Sal takes off all the shades,
replaces standard bulbs with tinted
shaped like pears and mangoes,
bananas for the chandelier and matching sconces.
Neighbors looking in with pointed fingers
tastefully agree. There, you see!
Sal must say he does
and for the first time making house a home,
he is going organic.
Turning Tables
Mr. & Mrs. go to church to meet the Lord
and then to Lowe’s to show Him cupboards
they would like Him to construct, give
that special touch He’s got for turning poplar
into something it isn’t. Just for us, they plead,
even when He tells them they are barking
up the wrong tree, that not that long ago
He gave up soft sawdust under His feet
for burning sand and sharp gravel. Just this once,
bring out Your saw, Your hammer. We need
the perfect kitchen to stir up masterpieces.
Lord said He couldn’t remember when
He last had a home-cooked meal, let alone a little
something for later. He’d have to think it over.
So He sits a minute with His head bowed
in the bed of their brand new pickup. He asks
if maybe He can go along home with them for supper,
and to measure. They say, hmm, maybe later,
and then the Lord says He’ll spring for all the fish
sticks they can eat down at Long John Silver’s.
Mr. & Mrs. confess it just doesn’t get any better.
Out of Water
I want to live by the sea.
I want to be the side in seaside.
Currently I’m living in exile.
You are living in exile too
but don’t know it yet. You
still have a job. I don’t.
I tell you that’s all going to change
soon. Catch of the Day comes
sooner than later and I’m
a good scaler. Diners hate
pulling scales to the sides
of their plates. They love
however to quibble over wine.
Me, I drink anything wet.
Once I drank juice from a box.
Neighbor right next to me
sleeps in a box,
sounds like a wave crashing.
Gold
Bea’s mother’s
the queen
and most of the time they live in
this big house she hasn’t even seen
all of it, it’s so big.
There are more big houses in the country and
other countries.
In all of the houses,
in all of the rooms,
gold,
lots,
and Bea asks her mother,
the queen,
why it stops where it does
if we’re so rich and own a kingdom.
Bea also wants to know
why it isn’t a queendom
and her mother,
the queen,
just rolls her eyes.
Why not gild floors, Bea asks,
why just the walls and the ceilings?
Why not the passage
down to the royal garage,
the garage itself while we’re down there?
Bea’s mother,
the queen,
annoyed like her bloodline with such inquisitions,
snaps open her purse in the most unroyal of gestures:
there,
in a side pocket with the bright yellow pencil,
the to-dos.
Tree Falls in Sherwood
Young Robin’s new construction
wouldn’t pass inspection
so the poor went back
to their hovels. His merry men stayed on
as merry men do
to help him and fair Maid Marian
turn the vestiges of the local castle
near the national forest
into a modest bed and breakfast
with angle parking at the back.
Certain members of the royal family
overnighted there
when attending the occasional rural do
and just to come down in the morning
for sausages, eggs, and tales
with the multigenerational staff.
Everyone tossed
fat soaked crusts to the dogs
and pitched in
to clear the plates and silver,
all vaguely familiar to the royals, wouldn’t you know,
and not a word’s been said outside
this kitchen, once the keep,
till now.
Wrecking Ball
We are dancing in an old house
dancing with itself. Music
fills the rooms but wants to take
itself outside and outdo sirens.
Books have jackets off,
no longer reading to themselves.
Paintings askew themselves,
seek small talk, finger sandwiches.
Cat points at a moon
that’s only seen itself in water
and dog flees to another corner
of the porch. Porch
to another portion of the house.
Coats come out of closets,
bodies dip before the mirrors
ready to knock some socks off.
A Life on the Road
You didn’t hear? He moved.
Out onto Superhighway 9.
Remember that big wreck?
The colonial single wide?
State’s let it settle off the exit.
He’s still unpacking. Will stay
forever if he can. No rent.
His yard is litter, tire treads.
He was conceived, it’s told,
on the console of a service van!
Little wonder his spine curves.
Little wonder one eye
stays open by itself. I swear
I once saw him turn his head
completely around.
Pyrogyro
I tell you in a whisper
I enjoyed your warm words
over the burn barrel. And what
a lovely spectra as the fabric
softener jug turned to goo.
Wasn’t it thoughtful
of the officer in his chopper
to descend to just above us and declare
the degree of your singed brow?
He was one and the same
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