--LISTEN TO ALL THE PEOPLE WALKING IN THE RAIN

...These are some poems I wrote about three years ago.  I can't remember what prompted them, although I did know a rough-houser named Mickey Purcell who once swung my head into a concrete wall, giving me a concussion...

Seconds

I find you in the bath,

buried in bubbles,
your eyes skirting the rim of a book
about God’s great reach
and that’s enough.
I don’t bother with disrobing
even though this tie cost
fifty dollars.
Sometimes seconds with you
are more precious than possession
I might have.

One More Thing

Before you go,

you should know the hinges on that door
are ajar,
flapped open like a bear trap ready to
spring.
Remember that story you told me
about the boy scout
lost in the woods
who had his leg ripped off at the ankle
because he wasn’t looking where
he was running?
Yeah?
Well, you might want to rethink your exit.

Twenty-seven

 

To celebrate his father’s birthday,

in Fourth grade,
Mickey Purcell took a bat to
twenty-seven cars at the school lot.
Exactly twenty-seven.
I was one of the few kids to see it happen,
Mickey swinging sweat and wood,
windshields and mirrors popping
like champagne shrapnel.

Yesterday I saw him in the paper,

twenty-seven himself now,
charged with battery and assault.
The bartender’s face looked like a blackberry pie
someone had stepped in,
and Mickey,
he looked
satisfied.