Old Wounds to the Metal

Teenaged boys

with single shot squirrel rifles,

trying to recreate

Bonnie and Clyde’s car,

plinking away,

one twenty-two at a time.

 

Hard to know what

they were thinking

except I was one

of the would-be G-men.

 

Black sedans

hidden in a gully

under years of kudzu

windows gone,

headlights bashed,

fenders and doors

riddled with holes.

 

The rightful owners

dead nearly a century,

the shooters all old men

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If I Find You Awake

at three am

I worry

 

if I am awake

I play spades

drink coffee

write poetry

and long

philosophical pieces

none will read

 

this is normal

do not worry

for me

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Another not Haiku

246

pouring coffee
contemplates breakfast
lone sugar ant scurries

 

 

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a few non-Haiku

still in my chair

the good morning darkness,

a day for ladders

 

a spare bird

leans out over the tracks

in search of what

 

cane fires smudge

dirty fingerprints

on the clear blue sky

 

 

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After Coffee

 

 

chair, ottoman

laptop, blackscreen TV

treadmill rolls, sore legs

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No Sun

Coffee, no cake, no cigarettes

hot peppers grow in the warm dark

I think of breakfast

 

You dream of shower curtains,

I of paying bills

both of travel

 

we go nowhere.

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Rusty Blue Snowflakes

scattered across

the bridge:

paint chips,

too cold for snow,

 

what looked like

a hundred feet

to the freezing river

slush chunks

 

white in

the black water.

some do-gooder

gave me a peanut

butter sandwich

 

hours ago.

The ice slides

under my shoe

full of holes.

 

Hunger slides

under my cold,

yet I can write

 

with a pencil

on the yellowed walls

of my brain.

 

Smooth gray lead

sliding over

the paper

third-grade penmanship

in Mrs. Foshee’s

warm classroom.

 

Paper makes a blanket

for my frozen mind

in the well of concrete

at the end of

the bridge.

 

I could write on old newsprint,

if I still had my pencil.

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