Terry

He lost his job.

No one seems to know the details, but he’s gone.

He was cheerful, bouncing between the control board and the job.

What is he now that he’s gone?

He has a wife, and a child.

They too, what, now that he’s gone?

His past and personnel must have met and become acquainted,

but he is no friend of his past now,

they have long since been alienated one from the other.

But he is gone, “And he won’t be back.”

Afternoons

The afternoons from one to four

are, yes, the greatest times.

The ladies of my neighborhood get together then.

Their sons-in-law, or grandsons loathe,

get raked across those embers,

and all their burdens, mightily borne, are bared, and souls are cleansed.

How dreary, how drab, how unthinkably empty this life

without afternoons would be.

Driving Through

Retreat.

Let me run from the 4^th-of-July people and their 90° waiting for the fireworks at the park with their sweat and soda pops littering the once was a beautiful park and will be again when they’re gone.

Once I was an extrovert of sorts.

Let me run from the pace dealt us by the oil men, the ad men, the steel people, and the others who would con us into believing that we will live forever, we’ll not grow old, but we must buy it now.

I once mingled and enjoyed it.

Let me run away.

I even used to like people.

But I can’t go back to Mother.

Just give me the strength to run.

Passionate Warmth

Violent-sweet, are present ever yearnings for a past that wasn’t, but is and continues to be.

No sorrow, only smiles for New Hampshire, which is really symbol for Driscolls and them. 

No time. It’s been five and many years, but they’re present, not past. 

Summer is the sweetest for me and Monadnock, though fall suits us best both.

Bagging Groceries #1

Rancid smells across the counter

from the happy lady who’s about seventy-five

would irritate the nostrils

except that her bad perfume

becomes Chanel

when she smiles.

After Two Hundred

Misbegotten land of the giants tread no kings but one and supreme.

Ill-wind blown, unwittingly, willingly arid extra dry, stomping out the butts and forcing a laugh.

Cantilevered pressure from within, draining life, water, blood,

the head ugly distortion, but the body beautiful with all that makeup.

Can’t take it.  They won’t leave a crumb for posteriority.

Life could have been one big happy if only

the inhabitants hadn’t decided to inhabit.

Animals

The zoo, who?

Those inside, or

outside, or

through?

I can’t tell,

can you?

Coffee Break #?

Alone

with the lights on

and people around,

abounding in games

playing, noisy,

the boisterous,

and nobody knows I’m here.

Not that I care

to be fondled

by complaints

more than heavily sighing,

“1 can’t buy anymore

if you’re out, and pouting

just makes me feel good.”

Really, don’t mind me.

I’d sooner be lost in this salad

than tossed to those lambs.

Here She Is

The grease has been cut by detergent all hallowed,

     the skin is soft as if marshmallowed.

the legtricity flows through no baggy knees,

     and armfuls of antisweat float on the breeze?

Two maybe lean eyes, attired all in blue,

     accent the dentines, possibly new.

The wiglet is on, coiffed, and the spray

     has been spritzed ‘til the split ends gather to play.

The form in itself, built up from beneath,

     strides stunningly forward, us all to bequeath

the body, the body we know

     to be miss America, queen of the show.

Honor Thy Other

Philanthropic, panaplopic display

of names in the Who’s Who ,

alongside the debutantic other halves

that pass unseen and unsung,

comprise the megalopic lineup

in one of our heavens.