Recent Poem

 

CITY CORNER

​I met a woman once on a city corner. We were waiting for the traffic to clear. After a while she turned to me and asked if I might buy her a drink. I said I would if she did not say her                                        name.

​After we had settled in at the café across the street, I told her my name was Frank. I said I was named after my father. He met a woman in a bar once but it didn't work out as he had                              imagined.

​She asked if I would order a martini for her. I ordered two. I'd never had a martini before. She preferred not to talk for a while and asked if I would just relax quietly and look at                                                    her.

​It soon turned dark and started to rain. We talked about past loves. We left together arm in arm - oblivious to the rain. The morning sun came - tender au revoirs before parting on the                                                                                               corner.

R E C E N T P O E M S

      Feature Encounter  

I took the third one in from the aisle.

The lights dimmed

for the newsreel. They arrived as

the feature began - man on the end,

the woman next to me.

 

A scent of lavender came to me

as if on a whisper.

I was keenly aware of underskirt

stirrings - legs sheathed

in black nylon. 

 

Passion, betrayals, and murder

played out on the screen.

A melancholy sax in 

my ear. They leaned in - 

speaking low.

Her sighs softly heard.

I imagined a brief glance had

faintly grazed my cheek.

Our elbows touched lightly

on the armrest.

She rose and left - trailing her

seductions. The lavender

lingered - the movie ran on. 

The man stayed 'til the end.

I watched the credits.

2023

 

 

                 MY NAME IS TOM SMITH

 

My name is Tom Smith. “Yes, really!” Is my response to

women in bars and cops who stop me on the street because

I look like somebody. Some other people in bars take me for

a narc because – they tell me later – of the way I look or

because of the way I walk. When they find out my name, they

sort of step back a little and shoot me a sidelong glance. I don’t

mind. I think it’s kind of funny. My mother, Mary Smith, snickered

when I told her. She still thinks I look more like Charley Manson.

 

My name is Tom Smith and I work in this here beat up, red brick

factory in Detroit. I get along with most everybody even though

there are a lot of assholes in this world and some of them work

here. It’s 1985 and I’ll be dead in 2 years at 48. Somebody will

find me on the floor of my mobile home in Belleville. Too many

cigarettes, booze and a bad diet I guess. Can’t really blame the job.

I’m here in this life ‘cause I got nowhere else to be. I had a double

bypass a while back or else some other asshole would be working

this press right now.

 

Me and the ex-wife divorced a long time ago. Our three kids are

grown up and living away from me and her. Two are doing OK. But

that one girl? Well – she’s a lot like me. Likes to have a good time.

She’ll finally get married after I’m gone but it won’t last. My other

two will hang in there. As for me? Once in a while after the bars

close and that horny old thang raises its ugly head, I call up my

emergency lover-girl and we have a good time. She understands

and doesn’t question. In a few years she will write a poem about

finding my grave among graves in a lifeless barren field. Later,

she writes, a visit to a favorite old cemetery satisfies her search

for evidence of a life among the discarded beer cans and time-

worn stones. My name is Tom Smith.

 

But you knew all that and more you won’t tell. The presses will fall

silent at last. Three black crows will stand high ── nodding on their

roost. I will yield and slip silently away. I will take nothing because

I brought nothing. I will give to you what I had ── to hold ‘til it’s

your time. You will remember me long after I cock my head and

plunge from the ledge. And you will write a poem about me ──

or will it be about you. My name is Tom Smith.

 

 

          CITY MAN for Lisa

 Cadillac Square, in the light of day,

bustles with the business of

commerce and traffic, taxi cabs

and limousines. Fashionable

women escorted to bistros.

Shadows lengthen – obscuring

sins of the coming hours

 

This late night a solitary figure

emerges from the  labyrinth–

WSJ under arm, briefcase

in hand – makes his way to a

chauffeured black Jaguar purring

at the curb. Sewer steam rising to

an amber triangle beam.

 

A southbound bus pauses – blocking

my view. A woman yells my name

from a speeding car heading north –

her black locks flowing. Purple tail

lights flicker, diminish as the Jag slips

in behind, bound for its’ Bloomfield

marble and mahogany cage.

 

I hesitate and watch as the bus

continues on. Then somewhat

cautiously I step from the median

and head eastward to my

Gratiot Ave walk-up studio –

my cat, Cat, purring at the door

patiently for footsteps on the stairs.

2023