Handsome

 Nobody thought he was handsome except for me,

the sharp-elbowed stick girl with the camera around her neck.

Always, he would show up on the street early,

a midnight cat sliding in on private grooves, to sit and wait

on the curb for the other workmen and the Jonah bus 

that swallowed them away.

If I could've, I'd have built him a church,

with Host of egg sandwich and coffee black or white.

I'd swear I saw him take out a rosary one diesel-rattle dawn

and it was strung with candy skulls and baseballs.

I imagined his prayers were colorful foreigners wandering 

in warehouse downriver drab Detroit, hated by strangers, loved by God.

After an absence, getting off gin and bad poetry,

I returned to find him gone, the bus stop shifted, the lone tree down.

The starlings had lost their home, me my jones,

and my camera stayed empty for a year after that, like an unfed stray.

I asked a girlfriend once, "Remember that guy, the different one

we used to see waiting?" Ugh, she said, that one. 

Like I said, only I thought he was handsome, like rain, 

like new work boots pawned.

_______

 for Word Garden Word List--Dave Kelly.

Love Letter From A New York Girl Stuck In Texas

Honey,

I'm so glad that this has reached you--and that you wanted to open it and read my words, as you used to love to do. Maybe things haven't changed so much, after all?

I won't say "wish you were here" and I wouldn't will it so, even if I had a genie on my shoulder taking down every word. But I am with you...you know that, yes? Even still?

I'm thinking, tonight, of a song you once played for me on the phonograph--you with your vintage records you love so much. It was called "Don't Get Around Much Anymore." Do you remember? And do you recall how I wouldn't believe you that it was "The King of the Blues" singing it? It sounded so old-timey. You had that sparkle in your eye and your lips turned up at one corner, it amused you so, knowing you were right all along. How I insisted! I'm a silly goose, darling. 

Tell me, sweetheart, is it evening as you read this? Have you had a nice meal, are you feeling content? I want you to be, even if you don't believe it. (I can grin that Cheshire grin at you too, you know!) Even though it's late here--nearly midnight--I am only now sitting down. I'm having crab cakes with baby carrots, plus Raisin Rum Cake for dessert. Yes, your favorite--I specifically put in my request for it, in your honor. You say I always get what I want--not always, I'm afraid, mon coeur. Not always. In spite of all my best efforts.

Well, sweetie, the time has flown and I need to get this into an envelope for you. They don't let us seal them, did you know that? I hope they don't undo my best intentions by redacting the heart of all I've said. I love you, I love you, I love you. There. They can't black out all three, can they?

Please forgive me, mon petit coeur, for anything I may have done to offend you...ever. It would mean so much to me if you could. That girl, she was coming between us, ruining everything, and the thought of losing you made me not myself. Blame it on that Other Me, won't you? Could you? I won't beg--I know you like me best when I'm all devil-may-care, and I promise to try to be that way from now on. I'll pretend I'm only visiting the doctor, getting a routine inoculation so that our next weekend won't be ruined by me sniffling and honking like a sea bird. All right, off I go any minute now..."down under" let's call it. That sounds so much better, yes? "Tie me kangaroo down...sport..." Poor kanga. 

Forgive me. Don't forget me. Be glorious, for us both, all right? 

All my love,

Charlene

This letter inmate-generated from Mountain View Women's Correctional Facility, Gatesville Texas. Contents have been screened. Recipient is advised to view all such correspondence as being possibly coercive, manipulative or false.
___________________

For "dear poems" at Real Toads.  

 

Loaf

In Texas, I worked at an ice house,
for a cranky old New York transplant.

Little black kid brought pennies for a loaf--
old man blew up at him, chased him to the door.

Kid pushed, door stayed, face so scared.
I said "pull", he did, just in time.

Old man raised a newspaper rack at him, but I caught it from behind.
Kid went hungry.
_______

66 words for Words Count with Mama Zen.

In the early 80s, I had a job in a not very great neighborhood at a 7-11 type store. Texans call them ice houses. The owner worked the night shift with me, and he hated the locals. This little boy put all pennies on the counter for a loaf of bread, and this man took it as the boy messing with him, but the pennies were probably all he had. That was thirty years ago but I never forgot it. I've always wondered, if I hadn't been there to stop him, if he really would have brained that little boy with the newspaper rack over some pennies. I kind of suspect that boy never forgot that night, either.

Hush

"Hush,"
she said,
with her finger to my lips.

"Shhh,"
she said,
her hands finding skin.

Didn't she understand
that I am not,
never was,
never will be,
any kind of beautiful?

"Not a word,"
she said,
as lips followed hands.

"You don't have to--"
"Maybe I want to."
and finally, I realized that she meant it,
there in the
quiet,
together in the
hush.
_____

for Words Count with the gorgeous Mama Zen, at Real Toads. She asks for the stuff that is difficult to write, in 75 words or less. This poem has 65.