This week’s selection!
every person on the train is thinking
No, because we still have so many questions
as the out-of control express careens through another curve
Snowing. The weather too foul the roads too dire.
Whatever I want instead I ring ring the telephone.
It’s the deliveryman who stumbles on the sidewalk.
just a sprinkle of steam and
the hot iron knocks down the wrinkle
on your favorite pinkle dress
the last egg in the carton
the last kid picked for kickball
the last bloom on the rosebush:
how utterly alone you all are
When a baby tooth refuses to budge
it will take more than the services of a diplomat.
Try instead a string tied to the doorknob.
The Psoriasis at Stubborn Nubbin
my father derided the housing development
our family could not afford-
while my mother so longed to live there
Yes, the money from the robbery
paid for the dinner from the ribbery –
Cash and dash, meat and eat.
answer the knock on the door?
Not right now when
it’s more inportant to focus on
hurtling Mother down the stairs
when cows quarrel, it is time to pay attention.
I know, I know, I know.
It makes almost unbearable sense.
fingers a ripening tomato on the vine
volunteered in the gravel between building and sidewalk
do you have a minnow
I thought you said, and I said No
but you said minute – and so we never
dated or married or grew old together
whole lotta screeching: the bristles on this brush
drawn like nails and barbed wire
through her thick unruly ultra-curly hair
the town was full of awkward explanations
whispered behind windows
dressed in plastic fake-lace curtains
are we just very close or are we
sisters failing to ward off an evil twin?
Look at our matching prom dresses and decide.
if you’re really that unhappy
the ghosts will surface
but it’s up to you as to how you will greet them
I live actually very open –
stretched wide – and
there is room for you, too. Come inside.
you say to me I love you
I say to you we’re better off just friends
Simultaneous and overlapping. Oops.
the subplot ground along, hidden from sight:
the proof that her story was true
buried beneath peas and broken dishes and tired feet
white birds on a tree branch
voices hoarse and staccato
incantations above my head
roaming phantoms I caught and chained to the piano
I play and try to get them to chime in
They do, their jabberings tuned a bit sharp –
but it could just be me. Sing on!
5 thoughts on “Little Vines 8/26/21”
In Lawrence Welk’s best voice, “Wunnerful, wunnerful!”
Thank you (bowing in appreciation!)
I think there is a unifying theme in several of these poems revolving around fractious encounters: the stumbling delivery man, ghosts held captive by the living, the conflicting dialogue of the unrequited lovers, the mother being thrown downstairs, the curls against the brush, and even the tooth and the doorknob.
Fractious is how I have felt this past week, all right. Hmmmm…
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