Joe
strings twinkle lights, tree to tree.
This takes a ladder and a hammer.
Rakes a mound of dried pine debris
and duff. A single match. Flames clamor,
a bonfire. Which takes cordwood,
chainsaw, leather gloves, and sweat.
Dumps bags of crushed ice to chill
drinks in the cooler. The sun is set.
His wife leans out the window sill-
Joe, she calls, come help if you would
carry the folding tables, plastic chairs
from the shed. She totes trays of pears,
cheese and bread. A party, ready to go-
which takes me and the others. Hello. Hello.
My Neighbor
painted his house
the colors of his favorite team.
Watched the playoffs
on his big-screen TV.
In his recliner
with a beer at hand
he'd coach his players out loud.
An intimate whisper
in the batter's ear.
A rant from the dugout
over a fumbled grounder.
First I met him, he swallowed
my handshake
in his bricklayer's paw,
calloused as a catcher's mitt.
Once I watched him, Sunday after church,
watering his lawn, shirtless.
A thicket of hairs down his back,
shoulders of an old bull,
beer-barrel gut.
Three neighbor boys pedaled
up the walk, into a puddle
at his feet, splashing his good shoes.
You little sons-of-bitches, he hollered.
Turned his hose on them
as they scattered screaming gleefully.
We didn't have much to say.
I'm no sports fan.
Nodded hellos, mostly.
When he ruptured a disk,
I drove his girls to school
on my way to work.
And brought them back.
When tragedy befell my household
-all the cards and letters,
the sickly pious condolences and prayers-
none of these lifted me much
as the day I came home
to find a battered postcard
jammed in the backdoor seal.
His team's logo, full color.
His sincere scribble,
I'm cheering for you, pal.
Flying Toad
Plastic bracelet signifies
unescorted minor. Fidgety
pre-teen assigned
to the seat beside me. Shuttled
twixt Dad's new life,
Mom and her boyfriend back home.
Up in the air.
I shake my head
how the world's changed. The kid
flips open his lap-top. Splats
aliens, as a rap rift thumps
in his headphones. Shouts
at me like I can't hear.
And just when I'm worried I've glimpsed
humanity's impending collapse,
the kid elbows me
to confess he's smuggled
contraband. A gift
for his best buddy in school.
(Wanna see?)
Digs in a hidden duffle.
Keeps a sharp eye
on the steward's back, turned. Extracts
a tattered shoebox, holes punched
top and sides.
It's a big one, he says.
Named Lumpy.