Project Poem-A-Day: Days 16 & 17 (makeup)
I was sick at the end of last week and missed two days of new poems. Although at the time I was gonna let those two days drop, I figured the whole point of the challenge is to write a whole bunch of new stuff – and so why not make up for those two missed days. So here they are.
Coyotes
“I’m not going to be very judicious,
I’m afraid,” as he struggled to haul kindling
to build a fire that night during his watch.
“They’ve run across here before – like birds, like a
line through one right through to the next one;
it’s hard to know which one to follow.” Memories
of their blighted homes floated behind his statement.
His shotgun leaned against his shoulder with a secret to tell.
“Areas…” he said, before rethinking his point.
“This is home to us, not to them,” he continued.
“If we could live peacefully together, I wouldn’t
bother being here,” as he ran
a finger down the seam of his jeans,
tracing the scar underneath, that he earned from
the last time he encountered his prey.
Broken Metaphor
Romance is a used pot of oil for deep frying,
holding onto flavors of past lovers.
The oil I use is suited for drinking.
With odor like the first step in the front doors
of a downtown late night diner. A reveler tastes
the pasture in his beef; the pickup bell sings muffledly
under the smoke of drunk conversations;
heat slides through nostrils and mouths
as air, proving more essential than oxygen; as
the lights bathe the room in dramatic white shadow.
In this kitchen, all the help bang elbows and egos
writing a melody that sounds the way
canned tomatoes taste.
Three years into college, I’m here to impress her:
the woman I might marry.
The oil is not suited for drinking.
The napkin dispenser is empty, I notice,
has this ever happened before?
I tap a rescue message with my pinky nail
against Formica, because if I live this down
I might find rhythm in music again.
It’s not called crying, it’s a teardrop;
everything I say is unnecessary.
The contained tantrum of pride
dropped its arms in the parking lot
at the end of a long day. The
flashing neon is childhood, a reassuring hour
in the bath, a bedtime song.
I break through the glass window without a sound,
pick up the pieces and return them to the pane.
The Big Guy is about to try something new.
In adulthood,
when there are no more problems,
we’ll be back here again, triumphant as game show winners.
The regal pool of ketchup wipes itself off the plate,
reveals skids of oil I forgot were there.
Eating to live is a way to survive, but not for us.
Ce qu’elle a dit, ce soir la?
The cup of coffee takes a final drag of
cigarette, coughs out a teaspoon of sugar.
The asphalt outside is wet from rain or
late night street-cleaning; we haven’t noticed.
As we stumble off the curb, we step
over a trail of romance before the sun rises.