on the day Robert Parker died

by Derek Richards

we were at the local Market Basket,
shopping for cheap groceries,
immersed in two-for-one deals,
stocking up on frozen dinners
and juices that sip
well with vodka.

the annoying buzz of an incoming text message
caught me staring at three
different brands of sliced pepperoni.
just heard, robert parker died. oh no.

when i was 13/14 i would roam the dead streets
of tiny Essex, Massachusetts,
a liter of Wild Rose Wine
in my denim jacket pocket.
thinking bad glorious thoughts,
big cities and publishing contracts,
record deals and pretty blonde women
willing to learn to love
me.

Spenser For Hire was not a favorite show,
i knew nothing of Hawk, Susan Silverman
or the true nuances of alcoholism.
it was ache, want, loneliness foremost
in that young, delicate mind,
to think that a famous author would one day
describe these very streets....

of course, i'm far older now,
but i still dream about walking dead-town
streets with a cheap bottle of wine
inside my jacket,
and on the day Robert Parker died,
it could've even been a good idea.

i'm lost.
like Jesse Stone, Sunny Randall,
and sometimes tough,
like Spenser himself,
or Hawk,
looking my best with good intentions
wrapped in bad-ass consequence,
solid knuckles and
the brilliant-vice of once again
saving the day.

when he wrote about Jesse struggling
with the idea of never having another drink,
i chewed on the same ice-cubes.
when Susan involved herself with
another dangerous man,
when love outweighed pride, heartbreak
and control,
i allowed myself to almost weep
because i knew what he really wanted to say.

Hawk will still be standing guard,
Mr. Parker,
Susan will still lead Pearl-the-wonder-dog from the bedroom once the dialogue
gets too frisky,
Jesse Stone will always wonder about
Jennifer and Sunny will never
go a day not trying to live up to the
reputation of her father.

on the day Robert Parker died
i decided on pizza rolls,
salisbury steak dinners and a new pack
of cigarettes.
i'll mix the vodka later,
sip the wine like Jesse would sip
his Scotch and soda.

and when Pearl-the-wonder-Dog comes
scratching at the door,
i'll tell my sweetheart to have patience,
she's just another important
character in an imperfect life.

motivating joshua

by Derek Richards

joshua nails the door shut with a rolling pin
scratches the bruises beneath his eyes
steadies himself with a quick hit on the joint
slides his head against the door
and listens

we can't continue to support you like this, josh
you haven't worked in months
you always smell like beer and dope
we've told you a thousand times
that linda is not allowed in our home
so that's it, okay, you've got two weeks

They turn off the living room lights at ten
the master bedroom lights at ten-thirty
wash the mercedes on sunday afternoons
and cut the lawn once a week
the morgage is paid and there's enough in the account
to pay the bills for two or three years

what happened to you, josh, we're concerned
you have no motivation, no passion
you don’t change your clothes
take a shower or talk for days
when linda blows you off you sulk
when she decides she needs a warm place to drink
we simply become obstacles

this is exactly what linda wants
a house of her own to raise the kids
as soon as judge davis gives her a break
she and josh will share the morning newspaper
sip coffee and plan their day
between her disability check
and the pot growing out back
they'll even have enough
to vacation up at the lake house
she'll finally fall madly in love
all it took was a rolling pin, ten nails
and a little motivation

old salem style

by Derek Richards

in old salem we hang witches
then sell t-shirts,

the harbor drifts alone,
isolated from telephone
poles and promises.

everytime you smile, my dear,
i see bullets and misled angels;
handguns and hallucigens
teach one manners.

the really pretty girls wait
for someone to make them ugly,
worthy and homesick, carefree
and degraded. like a daddy
wasn't poison enough.

wishing i was still young enough
to fake the blues, desperate to peruse
expectations. when did i get fat
on smooth leather and blonde hair?

there is always a plan, I’m a cannibalistic
poet, an intellectual eating his young.
you are comfortable, busy reading,
hidden behind a force field of alarm codes,
watching "gangland" on the history channel,
sucking down maple-walnut, complaining
about weight-loss commercials. dying bland.

and so here we are again, in old salem,
remembering witches and dollar draft nights.
tonight, it's all about me.
i am mad and drunk on kerouac,
vodka and hollow points.
you, my sweetheart, my aching love,
you must forget everything
and shut your mouth.

spiders and crows

by Derek Richards

ellen was my older sister
for two hours
of slush puddles and stinging promise.
upon learning my poetic intentions,
she carved a question mark
into a snowbank,
you'll need this alot

when i am able to imagine ellen,
sharp winter rain
resembles falling spiders,
leather boots trudging through silk,
belly-up flies exposed
as patches of asphalt.
i'm reminded often of the siblings
i've lost with each season.

when you find somebody,
somebody who comforts you,
dig in your heels
it's this voice, smooth dirty ice,
knotting my throat with
an articulate ache,
as familiar as crows perched on wires,
black warnings for bad days.

my last impression of ellen
colored me old-man pale,
she was red-knit hat, yellow stockings,
a memory preceding departure.
odd moments catch me tearful
over question marks
and the slow fade of children.


*originally published in Cantaraville