Short Story of a Short Man
He
walks without bending his knees
like he’s trying to seem
taller.
He tells me
NO
He crashed
a plane once
skinned
the backs of cows.
They bled into fertilizer.
I
shake my brain.
He writes to me:
“I used to fly.”
Tonight
is his free night.
His wife at school.
His dogs fed.
He
asks me to go
to the river
where the big rock lies
and
grass turns into straw.
The
river where I kissed
the first husband
the first teacher
the
first boyish grin.
The
river where cops patrol
and a tongue never tastes salty.
The
river where coal
and steel and nuclear waste
and air and
soil
and butane
reflect off water.
What is Left
Across
the bar
she sits
ice cubes melting
in the palm of her
hands. She stares at him
with charcoal eyes.
Red light
flickering above the pool table
blurs his vision.
He
knows of her.
He smells her tobacco breath.
Her outline
close enough
he can touch her chewed fingernails.
He hears
her scratchy voice.
“Darling, don’t leave.”
He
sips his drink
the wine turns stale
the air turns raw.
He
sits
in silence
and thinks
about
the snow that’s coming
and how quickly it will pass.
Elegy for Trishy
Two
cigarettes
after the plane ride from West Palm,
and you come
to sleep
on the family room couch
for the last
time
Christmas 99.
Oh the sweet smell of Virginia
Slims!
filtering in from the back porch.
We
would never visit.
Not enough of anything
to fulfill the
promises
my mother made.
Your last stroke
drove her to
buy
another pair of shoes.
God
burned you
with nervous ashes
and we all saw
your pale
skin tighten
around your bones.
I
had to find a place
to cough
and smoke
and think
about
the black asphalt
hitting the soles of my shoes.
A place
where weeds can bud
and human footsteps
can only be heard
past the stillness of trees.