“Here; just stick the end of this hose in yer muzzle—guzzle
the cold ones we’ll pour down the funnel … GUZZLE! GUZZLE!”
Our clunkers squat in St. Greg’s parking lot; there is Chuck’s
pride, his sixty-six gold Impala—a bad gas guzzler. “GUZZ–LE!”
Don’t get me wrong, you can love.
You can bend over
a pinball machine for a biker,
or a balcony for a photographer.
You can bend over a bridge
for a poet
the lady asked me what it meant
and for some reason i told her we were refugees from Transnitria
a small republic surrounded by very large and powerful states
a republic so small that it can only be spotted on a map with a magnifying glass
I want to know who cried for the toy I found out back this afternoon. Was it the same child
While her organs wrecked, she had a mouth full
of prayer.
It was stage IV & I didn’t understand the logic.
How, of prayer,
Of the softness between God’s hands, cancer
could slip in unnoticed.
Ours was often a wordless language,
Whole conversations shared in the space
Between the hook flying from the rod,
To the splashdown in the water …