And Then There's This... Sometimes I Think in Poems
THE BANJO IS A RUBE
The banjo is a rube,
long-necking into town and
defensively keyed up
to glib impertinence.
It is the village infidel,
wise-cracking the bowed heads,
plucking from crinkled knees
to tapping toes
the Sunday zombies into sin.
It is a guerilla,
starved down
to the desperate energy
of stretched nerves,
sniping at fat pianos in full dress.
It is a pensioner
retired to dusty corners.
pin-striped and stiff,
humming at night
an agile frolic.
FOR NORMA
Most nights I am complete –
The Oxford English Dictionary,
a Swiss Army knife,
Britannica A to Z.
But not tonight, for I am tired and old
and empty of the comfort of your voice,
the reassurance of your brushing hand.
PASSAGES
Her fingers are sliding off the world,
combing through shades of friends
and strands of unkempt hair,
clutching at images that undulate and flee,
caressing clouds and sunsets and songs
that come in pixels,
clawing for words that bob like bottles
and then wash out to sea.
HARVEST TIME
The day will come when all I am is documents –
class notes, tear sheets, fierce letters to the press,
grocery lists, tax forms, reporter's pads,
canceled checks, e-mails, book proposals,
floppy disks, term papers, marginalia, index cards
and a Post It sticker topping the pile
that says “Trash.”
(Please send your comments or questions to stormcoast@mindspring.com with “And Then There's This” in the subject line. And thank you for reading.)
