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A Today of 23 Years
errand running on main street, small town
seeing what's there as if it were veiled
by apparitions of what was and is no more.
dollar store and nail boutique masking
the old Granada theater boasting balconies
popcorn and its fancy opera house appearance
balustrades trim stairs winding up, a level
to oldschool opera seats, a two bit luxury
but why waste a quarter? kids are great sneaks
flicks were a buck there when i was preteen
this kept us all day long, in repeat
viewing movies to the point of reciting
line for line, before they left the sound
system, old and outdated now but then great
enough on the ears of a child who hears
with imagination filtering flaws and errors
stone age imperfections of caveman cinema
further down where people gather about government
center, for certification, registration, taxation
an old stairwell caught in peripheral side-glance
swims up from under like great bird wings lifting
cliche burden of atlas shrivels to childhood
where bowling on Sunday's with the biodad asshole
was a regular, inexpensive way of killing the two
visitation hours spent on my sister and i
remember playing centipede for the very first time
virgin strike, second spare, seven ten, gutter balls
old Automat style vending machines that served hot
coffee, cocoa, chicken broth, tea, sometimes cold
soda, seltzer, fountain style, the orange always flat
plastic bag nourishment that somehow went stale
no bond with the man who pawned me off to these places
instead of teaching me to flyfish for deer or hunt trout
because the evil of these ideas apparently would have
taken one thing that this no good father could surrender
the invisible concept of quality time
BROWN'S HOUSE
three lawns down where the dogwood grows
on the slight slope of a hill's north side
Brown's house sits, humble and hidden
telling of the shoe merchant
living in 1832, a small sign draws
view to a nearby birdhouse
decorating the east side
where the ground dips deep
forming a rich green dish
mother earth well trimmed, healthy
walls of shrub and black eyed susan
soldiers standing steady guard
changing only for the seasons
not under cover or blind to passing eyes
but beneath the guise of simplicity, shaded
in gray paint, on a low frame, this home
set well on a low foundation
strong like a stone wall, covered in Frost
poems, built by those who see importance
gathering with simple but real burdens
put to use and put in place
to hold on for hundreds of years
THE FATE OF
grass dried through
in death turned ochre
brushed out with an iron rake
leaving clumps of green protruding
squat beards sit on umber patches
of earth that spreads
across the yard
clovers and crabgrass
weeded, free up
the tongue of a rosebush
near wilting, tilted
under harsh sunlight
dreaming of shade
living green
while knowing, one day
brown will be
its ultimate fate
ivy keeps crawling
up the lattice and reaches
out over those blooming
stealing sunshine and rain
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