Road Service
Rita’s mouth dropped
at the unexpected full-load
pickup pulling off, squealing,
onto the shoulder beside her little
coupe. Lucky I came by, Harry (the
name on his shirt) said, sauntering
out of the well-equipped truck. How
could he not, given his profession, notice
her classic chassis in need? Rita tried to take it
all in, mooning over the sight of his bulging
black extended cab 4x4. Give me a jump?
She felt around for the latched slot to
pop her hood, which Harry instantly
knew where to find, his thick fingers slip-
ping under her grill. Oh, she blurted. One
hand above her head, the other raising the rod
that would prop open her hood, Rita stretched,
leaning over her exposed motor, Harry’s breath
on her neck. Jumper cables he kept in his bed snaked
around his arms, he licked his lips. We’ll, he winked,
get you going. She smiled, sure he knew what went
where & how. His engine throbbing, the jagged teeth
of the cables gently bit the hard nodes of her battery. Now,
he yelped. Door swung wide, key in the ignition, left
foot on the ground, her right on the gas, she pumped a bit
wildly, turning over & over until a series of faltering flutters
reached a high-pitched crescendo & shook her car. How much
do I owe you? Rita asked, relieved. Not a damn thing, Harry shot back.
He gunned his engine. Rita, aglow, gushed even as he sped off, long
after the waggle of his tailgate shrank to just a smudge in her rear view.
[first appeared in Runes]
at the unexpected full-load
pickup pulling off, squealing,
onto the shoulder beside her little
coupe. Lucky I came by, Harry (the
name on his shirt) said, sauntering
out of the well-equipped truck. How
could he not, given his profession, notice
her classic chassis in need? Rita tried to take it
all in, mooning over the sight of his bulging
black extended cab 4x4. Give me a jump?
She felt around for the latched slot to
pop her hood, which Harry instantly
knew where to find, his thick fingers slip-
ping under her grill. Oh, she blurted. One
hand above her head, the other raising the rod
that would prop open her hood, Rita stretched,
leaning over her exposed motor, Harry’s breath
on her neck. Jumper cables he kept in his bed snaked
around his arms, he licked his lips. We’ll, he winked,
get you going. She smiled, sure he knew what went
where & how. His engine throbbing, the jagged teeth
of the cables gently bit the hard nodes of her battery. Now,
he yelped. Door swung wide, key in the ignition, left
foot on the ground, her right on the gas, she pumped a bit
wildly, turning over & over until a series of faltering flutters
reached a high-pitched crescendo & shook her car. How much
do I owe you? Rita asked, relieved. Not a damn thing, Harry shot back.
He gunned his engine. Rita, aglow, gushed even as he sped off, long
after the waggle of his tailgate shrank to just a smudge in her rear view.
[first appeared in Runes]
*
The Highfalutin Old Coot
with the blue guitar lies unstrung
in the patient’s chair, reflecting
that he hears things as they are, not
how they should be, the tired refrain
of his ancient fishwife blowing
her squawky mouth organ aboard
a southbound train, unchanging
greenery scrolling by
like a Hanna-Barbera cartoon. Thing is,
he no longer has a wife because he chose not to
work at the fucking post office another
fucking second, sorting the sheer unknown
hell of standard business
envelopes & plain
brown wrappers. Things as they are,
he spits out, change with every strum &
twang of the transcendental
strings.
O, poses one
haloed by fluorescent light, what’s wrong
with things you feel
you must change them?
The needle stings the graying blues man
as if a bee had bumbled into the flower
of his pried wide jaw. His gum tingles, his tongue
slowly numbs.
Someday, Dr. Pappadopoulos pipes,
you’ll learn to accept things as they are.
Pausing to tune his drill, he adds,
with a blackbird’s cold stare: Open up.
A swell of instruments fills the old guitarist’s
gaping pit. The dentist dives in,
whistling folksy
strains from The Magic Flute.
with the blue guitar lies unstrung
in the patient’s chair, reflecting
that he hears things as they are, not
how they should be, the tired refrain
of his ancient fishwife blowing
her squawky mouth organ aboard
a southbound train, unchanging
greenery scrolling by
like a Hanna-Barbera cartoon. Thing is,
he no longer has a wife because he chose not to
work at the fucking post office another
fucking second, sorting the sheer unknown
hell of standard business
envelopes & plain
brown wrappers. Things as they are,
he spits out, change with every strum &
twang of the transcendental
strings.
O, poses one
haloed by fluorescent light, what’s wrong
with things you feel
you must change them?
The needle stings the graying blues man
as if a bee had bumbled into the flower
of his pried wide jaw. His gum tingles, his tongue
slowly numbs.
Someday, Dr. Pappadopoulos pipes,
you’ll learn to accept things as they are.
Pausing to tune his drill, he adds,
with a blackbird’s cold stare: Open up.
A swell of instruments fills the old guitarist’s
gaping pit. The dentist dives in,
whistling folksy
strains from The Magic Flute.
(first appeared in Blue Mesa Review)
*
Making Valentines
Widow Mrs. Carey, no kids outside
her daycare, set her toy
poodle, dyed purple to match
her bouffant, down on purple
linoleum, framed by
purple walls, door
& ceiling. Creasing red
construction paper, she snipped
along the penciled
outline of what resembled a comic
drunk’s bulbous nose, showing how to cut
a heart out to give to someone
special. Lauren shaped a perfect
heart, announcing, red cheeked, her
marriage, date not set, to her
high school sweetheart, fated to meet
scant weeks before her junior prom.
Gerald cut opposite the fold, stupidly
rendering his heart into big tear-
shaped halves portending messy
divorce, alcoholism & suicide. Amy
trimmed the top pointy
as the bottom so, unfolded, it sprouted
horns that bespoke
temptations of illicit, sometimes
dangerous sex, while Danny–who
could figure his square
cut-out meant he’d
disappear onto a milk carton? Left
arm in a cast, broken
for the second
time in three months, I maneuvered safety
scissors with my unnatural
right like hedge clippers, zigzagging
along the sloppy
curved line. Pissed I’d used
the last of the red, Mrs. Carey, poodle
yipping, slapped a blue
sheet in front of me for my ragged
little heart, which, she
warned, no mat-
ter what, I’d just have to live with.
Widow Mrs. Carey, no kids outside
her daycare, set her toy
poodle, dyed purple to match
her bouffant, down on purple
linoleum, framed by
purple walls, door
& ceiling. Creasing red
construction paper, she snipped
along the penciled
outline of what resembled a comic
drunk’s bulbous nose, showing how to cut
a heart out to give to someone
special. Lauren shaped a perfect
heart, announcing, red cheeked, her
marriage, date not set, to her
high school sweetheart, fated to meet
scant weeks before her junior prom.
Gerald cut opposite the fold, stupidly
rendering his heart into big tear-
shaped halves portending messy
divorce, alcoholism & suicide. Amy
trimmed the top pointy
as the bottom so, unfolded, it sprouted
horns that bespoke
temptations of illicit, sometimes
dangerous sex, while Danny–who
could figure his square
cut-out meant he’d
disappear onto a milk carton? Left
arm in a cast, broken
for the second
time in three months, I maneuvered safety
scissors with my unnatural
right like hedge clippers, zigzagging
along the sloppy
curved line. Pissed I’d used
the last of the red, Mrs. Carey, poodle
yipping, slapped a blue
sheet in front of me for my ragged
little heart, which, she
warned, no mat-
ter what, I’d just have to live with.
[first appeared in Barbaric Yawp]
*
Leda & the Sun
A lemon wedge pushing through ice cubes,
which are actually clouds, the sun beats down
on the woman. As if feeding a flame, she
re-lubes the backs of her thighs, her ass
round as a turtle shell. Knowing the sun
isn't really a fruit, she shakes the sand
from her peroxidic mop. Fingers climb
her back to find the vague string that loosens
with a quick tug her small swimsuit & she
wriggles free. Now the sun's on her however
she turns, her skin tingling with each ray's
penetration. Being so undone, does
she shudder in light of the changing tide
when the indifferent sun goes down on her?
A lemon wedge pushing through ice cubes,
which are actually clouds, the sun beats down
on the woman. As if feeding a flame, she
re-lubes the backs of her thighs, her ass
round as a turtle shell. Knowing the sun
isn't really a fruit, she shakes the sand
from her peroxidic mop. Fingers climb
her back to find the vague string that loosens
with a quick tug her small swimsuit & she
wriggles free. Now the sun's on her however
she turns, her skin tingling with each ray's
penetration. Being so undone, does
she shudder in light of the changing tide
when the indifferent sun goes down on her?
(first appeared in Great Midwestern Quarterly)
*
Erato & Errata
I contemplated runes, jabbed
pins into the desecrated
temple of a voodoo doll. I tried abstinence,
temperance, neither by choice. How-
ever much I prodded & poked
the remains of my brain, that inky
day’s portentous clouds mostly slunk by
unnoticed as I was
looking up
“precipitately” in my weathered
dictionary. Rain tapped the glass like the stiff
keys of a Smith-
Corona upon which the story began
to unravel along the common
thread dangling
from the hem of a diaphanous blue
gown, revealing the inverted V of the lyrical
legs of
the Muse. O Matty-poo!
she cooed, my dumbstruck
face lifting from the page. You’re so
cute–invoking your adolescent
notion of me, banging
out your novel
stabs at poetry. There’s no
one like you anywhere–
& clever!
What burst that gooey pink bubble–
another time perhaps. For all at once–out the window
through which I threw the dead
fern, fancy Greek urn & all, as she ran naked
across the lawn with me
behind her shouting, Fuck
you if I’m crazy–a fawn
stumbled from the brambles.
As in a dream,
I fell, a wet leaf stuck to the allusive
anvil, my chin tilted toward
whatever gods remained
sufficiently sober to supplicate. Where
could I turn, given the stars, given
her glower in every twinkle?
pins into the desecrated
temple of a voodoo doll. I tried abstinence,
temperance, neither by choice. How-
ever much I prodded & poked
the remains of my brain, that inky
day’s portentous clouds mostly slunk by
unnoticed as I was
looking up
“precipitately” in my weathered
dictionary. Rain tapped the glass like the stiff
keys of a Smith-
Corona upon which the story began
to unravel along the common
thread dangling
from the hem of a diaphanous blue
gown, revealing the inverted V of the lyrical
legs of
the Muse. O Matty-poo!
she cooed, my dumbstruck
face lifting from the page. You’re so
cute–invoking your adolescent
notion of me, banging
out your novel
stabs at poetry. There’s no
one like you anywhere–
& clever!
What burst that gooey pink bubble–
another time perhaps. For all at once–out the window
through which I threw the dead
fern, fancy Greek urn & all, as she ran naked
across the lawn with me
behind her shouting, Fuck
you if I’m crazy–a fawn
stumbled from the brambles.
As in a dream,
I fell, a wet leaf stuck to the allusive
anvil, my chin tilted toward
whatever gods remained
sufficiently sober to supplicate. Where
could I turn, given the stars, given
her glower in every twinkle?
[first appeared in Interpoezia]
*
Walking in Chicago with a Suitcase in My Hand
over a bluesy guitar on the corner,
hammering & stretching strings, bending
hammering & stretching strings, bending
notes & somehow rhyming the title line with his
succinct explanation–twenty
words, tops–that the woman he still
loves, as evidenced by his pained rendition, told him
to leave because, he laments, he loves drinking, playing
the ponies & laying out all hours. But that’s
not who I am–the guy in faded jeans & brown
bomber jacket, blue shirttail hanging out, glasses
smudged, hair clinging to my face, trying to
remember what the doorman said: Left
on Lake to catch the L? Trudging down Stetson,
I’ve lived inside my head long enough to know
my way around, but not Chicago, rain
falling with the temperature. Here on pleasure
for the weekend, it’s (literally,
figuratively & on every level, both Upper
& Lower Wacker) over–& over
the jagged teeth of discordant architecture
the sad refrain plays as Howlin’s blowing
his harp–a train rumbling ever
faster, then fading–not merely tapping, but stamping
his leather sole against the wet
pavement. In the song, the suitcase
symbolizes burden & as mine grows
heavy, I switch hands. Rain turns
to snow. At the station, I realize how little I know
about the woman, but it scarcely
matters how pretty she is & smart, if she speaks
with a slight accent, whether her sweater’s
stylish with soft contours. To understand
the blues, the singer seems to suggest, you need
only know somewhere in this city lives
someone who’ll–he mutters almost
indecipherably–be happy when I’m gone.
[first appeared in Georgetown Review]
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