by Jack Ohms
When the traffic clears like a proverbial scotch mist
to let your chicken flesh and bones pass,
the old man from number 78 will buy a newspaper on an average day
at the kiosk across from the church;
his workman's life-history with its back to you
and his hat firmly on his head,
and a lad on a bicycle a size too small wonders,
like all young lads and lasses will
at the dark troupe;
a car or two or possibly three behind,
soon all settled into the corner of a pub you never knew,
to sigh for sighing's sake,
and a few last memories and tentative laughter,
some too-often-told jokes and half-spun stories
- and just as you thought you'd lived enough
to earn a place in merry Hell -
St. Peter will wave you through, not greeting;
his eyes on some other prize
and not even a chicken nugget-sized coal for after-burning -
you were just someone they spoke to in the bars:
"Not very old, was he?"
"No age to go, poor bugger!"
"Smoked like a chimney, though."
"Drank like a fish."
A preist farts and hangs up his cassock, takes tea,
while a boquet flips and flaps, flops in a slight breeze, light grey day,
and the heaving breast mound subsides, in a light rain.
- The Intoxicant
- Writing is a whore
- IF YOU’RE A RISK TAKER, MOODY, SADISTIC
- American Legion
- Apple Wine
- Drums on Vinyl Counters
- And The Way The Sun Was Positioned
- The Deli On Granville
- My Backroad
- Ode to Arlen Levy
- COOKIE LADY
- sad story
- AS SHE GRINDS
- Judeo-Christian hospitality
- Train Wreck
- "No Man's Land"
- The 909
- ▼ April (20)