poems – shorties

13 Sep

not into it
a soft breeze blows in across the backyard
every day around 4 pm –
trees bend, swirl and drift lazy across blue velvet skies –
fish boil across the top of the pond –

i find my spot on the back step –
smoke another cigarette –
trace back through the roots of my day
searching for a small fragment to tuck away –

she told me I would never forget the woman I could never have –
I shrugged and threw back the last of my beer –

we talked about past addictions –
winter in New Jersey –
working a stage to a fevered pitch –
my continuous search for the perfect ass –

she said, you’re uglier than I thought –
I said, maybe it’s time to shave that lip –

internet pictures are always a trap –

we sit in a corner booth –
people come and go –
she points out a woman in a short skirt –
says, that one might be your type –

we order another round –
her turn to pay –
on the house –
she owns the joint –

I compliment her hair –
she laughs and turns away –
I like it when you show your softer side, she says –
I say, I get it; you’re not coming home with me tonight –

we sit together in a diner
eating breakfast and complaining
about misbegotten spirits,
single track poets,
and Thursday night fights on HBO –

when she excuses herself for
a quick stop in the lady’s room
I watch her walk away –
she returns to find me laughing –

you really need to stop obsessing, she says –
I smile and pay the bill –
she walks me back to my motel room,
follows me in
and locks the door –

c’mon, she says, let’s get this out of the way,
and unbuttons her pants –

she sat on the edge of a sagging double bed
in the dim light of a beat down motel room
and stared up me –
well, does this thing work or not?

I stood silent swaying on old tequila legs,
dreaming of a beach in Cozumel
and a brown-skinned girl named Julianita
who I had not seen in 27 years –

killing time
we walked together past boarded up shops
and last chance liquor stores –
I stopped in to buy a pint –
my effort to stimulate the economy –

in a park filled with drunks and desperate tweakers
I read poems about her perfect ass –
she smiled politely, looked away into the distance
and lit a cigarette –

shallow graves
I don’t have time to dig another hole
my hands are blistered, knuckles bloodied
fingers broken

little silver coffins sit stacked against a plain white wall
ready to be lowered
memories tucked under velvet lined lids

there’s no need for markers
I know where everyone goes


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