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.)