Sunday, September 7, 2014

One

Photographs,

women I have loved
hang framed
and glass covered
among
half finished paintings
and 33 1/3 speed
collections
of folk and country
sounds.

Mixed with group
shots of
dead poets from
college and
close-ups of pretty
tattooed feet,
toes spread wide.

Snapshots of past
lovers, a two year
old calendar and
a couple of columns
by Koon and
one of those magnet
and metal filing games
you got as a
party favor when
you were a kid.

This one looks
like Chloe.

I keep the photos
of the old ones and
the new ones don't
mind.

They know.

I only really
loved the one.

What are a few framed
memories after they
have already laid in bed
with me and listened
as I talked about the
one.

I began writing verse just for fun.
A hot betty asked to see what I'd done.
I gave her a look see.
She gave me the nookie.
Now I write poems by the ton.

Summers

On days that the unit
would chug and hum
in a battle against
mid-day heat it's
valor no equal to ability.

We would wake long
before we wanted and
we would fix knowing
that would mean an extra
one to cop that night.

Sometimes there would
still be a bottle and
we would drink brown
from the plastic cups
that came with clean towels,
from Flo's cart.

It was the closest we came,
ever, to being us. People.
To having conversations,
the regular kind or
at least how we imagined.

I told her I wished  I loved her.

She asked if I knew
any games that didn't feature death.