Two Poems
Particles
Subtract your elegy from my sonnet.
Extract the essence from the flora.
Impersonate the Prime Minister;
pretend you are a pig, or some other
kind of swine. Gargle the wine to appear
knowledgeable. Reiterate your thesis. Ease
the speed of snowfall. Bellow from your
diaphragm. This diagram will illustrate how.
Did I tell you about my atoms? They are
like Lego. You can build a pirate ship or
a robot or a castle equipped with lasers or glow-
in-the-dark ghosts. Grammar is of
importance. The coffee was imported.
When you cough, cover your mouth.
Germs are nasty. Germans brew tasty beer.
Have you seen my beard? It’s here, on my face.
There is no excuse for your lack of insight.
Did you see it? It was here on my face.
The Red Light
Already late and speeding,
praying the light doesn’t change.
It does and I stop.
I tap my fingers against the wheel,
twist dials on the dash. In the rear-view mirror
I examine the spaces between my teeth.
The light hasn’t changed.
I rummage through the glove box,
remembering the spearmint gum.
I count spare change in the ashtray.
Minutes pass. I consult the
owner’s manual. I read it
cover to cover and still
the light remains. At sundown
I begin to worry. I take only
short sips from my water bottle.
I flick the high beams off and on,
signalling in Morse code. It’s getting late.
Radio hosts abandon the airwaves.
I watch the moon drift overhead.
Night after night
the moon is whittled
until crescent, and then
into nothing. I’ve been
counting the days on my
fingers and toes. Seasons
shift and skew. I engage the
wipers when it rains, crank the
defrost when it snows.
On humid summer evenings
I roll down the window
and let my arm dangle.
A faint breeze stirs my thoughts
and I wonder about Goldie.
Would she be swimming in circles
or just floating in the archway
of that tiny plastic castle? I hope the water
is fresh, that her bowl is clean. I hope she wants
for nothing. And sitting there, bathed in the glow
of that godforsaken light, I wonder
if she’d even remember me.
