Hitchhiking

Back in the Day,
the 60’s counter-culture
when we ripped the heads off
every idol of our parents
and love was all you need,
we hitchhiked all over America,
just stuck out a thumb.
We didn’t need cars,
couldn’t afford them.
America was our sedan.
We all had thumbs and smiles.
The country was ours. 

We had no fear.
Life was a safe road.
Until, one day, Renee
stuck out her innocent thumb
to get a ride
as she did every day
to go to class. 

That rainy afternoon,
she ran into our communal house,
burst through the open door,
panting, shaking, standing in the corner
tears of fear streaming down her cheeks.

“He took a wrong turn,
went into the woods;
I cried and begged.
He pulled a knife:”
‘Do only one thing,’ he said.
“I did and gagged and did and did.” 

The river of roads crossing America
sank to murky swamps,
some of the drivers snakes.
The end of America as we saw it
through the tinted glasses of the Revolution
that never happened.
We fled to the suburbs,
built our own two-car garages.

Published in The Write Launch

In a Short While

A sudden storm blew our backyard askew,

our oldest daughter called about her broken heart,

an inheritance check came from my dead Father, 

we chose to vacation on a beach,

our friend’s spouse died jogging,

our youngest daughter said yes in Belize. 

And just today, 
stirring songs of worship on Sunday morning,
our grandson’s pet lizard died.

He cried a lot.
We bought a rat.

Published in Serving House Journal

Portraits of Gran Ollie

Dorian Gray should have painted your portraits. 
I.
You told marvelous stories to us,
your grandsons,
tales of Candyland and disparate animals,
cat and walrus, pig and elephant, horse and snake, woven on the spot. 
II.
Our Mother told us your tale.
You were lost as a child in St. Louis,
found at a Convent and spirited to Arkansas.
You were betrothed to a German exchange student, murdered by an unrequited yokel love. You married the yokel’s best friend.
Mom was born.
The best friend lasted only a year, never seen again. 
III.
At first, you were a lady barber, then danced across Vaudeville. Smoking red hair lit up an insurance man.
Wild romance wed John Barleycorn.
You liquored your way across the South until the Crash. Harold—Hoovered— took his own life. 
IV.
Mom moved North to marry a Yankee.
You followed and told us the stories,
except on the nights you mumbled and stank. We didn’t know a bottle had a different genie. 
V.
Our Father was an abusive Lothario,
scoldings and beatings to cover his guilt.
You and Mom fled to an Aunt and Uncle in the middle of the night. Father pursued in rage.
Farmer Bill, blocking the door, threatened:
“Remember Yankee; I butcher my own hogs.” 
VI. 
After years of penury you wed Henry,
the happy cab driver who loved you well
until he died of intractable cancer-colored pain. 
VII.
Then, the clock of time stroked.
I visited you throughout,
prayed for you and talked to you, grasping a bony hand, only your eyes able to move,
blinking yes and no until you died,
a stark look of amazement plastered on your face. 
VIII.
Years later, my own grand boys begged a story, two little boys, mouth agape,
like birds grasping for words.
You showed up in the room
gray hair, flower print dress, without a bottle, smiling out the words for me. 

Published by Ibis Head Review

Artistry

On one side of the window,
I see my wife watering her garden,
tending every bush, bunch, flower,
like grooming our pets.

I am on the other side of the window,
composing a poem.
Some people may read my poem,
tell me how it blooms.
No one will read my wife's garden. 

Published by Imbibe Urbana

Shoe

A Step-Mother on her anniversary,
her new husband, a thoroughbred mogul,
celebrating at the track
every day.

This day was special
the spotlight on a nag,
a winless mudder.

An inside tip
when inside tips
could still be hidden.

He made a huge bet.
The nag
splashed her way to victory
through the torrential rain.  

99-1; $189.00 for $2.00.
Her new husband won $25,000,
down payment on a horse farm.

The next morning
he drank a martini
in lurid triumph
from her red, stained pump.

Soon, cheating peeked his head
over the paddock, 
odds on.  

A mare now,
a filly no more,
shod regularly
till the marriage
broke down.

Published by Spindrift