Stoop-shouldered and half-
blind by cataracts, he
sits in his rocking chair and
bitches about everything
except politics.
We should build a million cars a day,
just to let them run in idle gear;
We should burn the forests right away —
BURN THEM ALL! — and bring our future here!
Each of us should have a dozen brats,
just because we humans love to live —
Let’s waste resources, just so we can ask,
“Oh world of ours, have you no more to give?”
And when she answers with a silent wail
or whimper hidden by a chilling wind,
then we will see the road we’ve paved to Hell,
intending that our “good life” never end.
He hunches at his desk, beads of
sweat oozing from his furrowed
brow to from inky puddles on the
mottled white desert before him.
He clenches the pen in an iron grip
that leaves his fingers numb
and gnaws on its cap as if it
were a piece cherry licorice.
He grasps at fragments of thought —
any thought, any fragment — tenderly
herding them toward one another, cor—
ralling them beneath the harvest moon.
The thoughts coalesce into words,
and he ushers them out of confinement,
bringing them to life, one at a time,
and winnows away the weaker ones.
At length, he sets the pen down
and studies his masterpiece, nods
to himself, carefully folds it up
and seals it in an envelope.
He sighs. He looks at the revolver,
picks it up. The handle is smooth;
it fits his hand well. It’s time
to reap what he has sown.
Dad gave me ten bucks to go play pool,
and I was thrilled.
I love pool.
It is cathartic; there’s always room
for improvement, room to grow,
more to learn, more to know;
it’s never the same game twice.
It was snowing, that night,
and the tiny flakes
glistened in the light
as they fell like salt
shaken from the sky,
white puffs of life
dancing, swirling,
playing with the wind.
When we first got Sparky,
I was a boy, maybe
seven or eight year old,
and thought the new puppy
was a toy, one that makes
noise and bites.
Sparky bit me the day
my dad brought him home.
He had hidden under my chair,
and I bent over, trying
to coax him out, but he
must have been scared
and bit me on the ear.
His teeth were sharp.
My hand was on the door handle
when I saw him.
He was lying in the snow,
a blood trail fading
into the shadows outside
the range of the porch
light, his chest rising
and falling in sudden
little bursts.
I froze.
We had lots of other dogs while
I was growing up, but none
of them were Sparky.
He was our first terrier.
He was special. He was smart.
He was the kid brother
I never had.
“Dad,” I said, my voice low, empty.
“Come here.”
He didn’t understand — he never did.
He was always too busy to listen, to hear.
He was more interested in watching TV.
“Dad, come here,” I calmly repeated.
“What?” He was impatient;
he didn’t want to get up.
I knew he wouldn’t come, and
I had to say what
I didn’t want to say:
“Sparky’s been shot.”
Sparky had been in a dog fight,
once, and had come home
with a big gash on his side.
I didn’t know it, and when I saw
him, I grabbed him, right
where he was wounded.
He yelped — shrill, loud,
the kind of sound you
never want to hear twice.
He found a corner and laid down,
licking his wound.
Oh! How I loathe the mulberry tree
when summer brings its ripened fruit
(which, if I could, I’d love to eat —
but sparrows love to eat them too!).
Oh! How I loathe the mulberry tree
when summer sun entices shade
and I seek refuge at its knee
despite the havoc sparrows made.
Oh! How I loathe the mulberry tree
when summer rains are sparse and few
and washing cars infrequently
can’t cleanse it of what sparrows do
after eating all those mulberries!
The Waiting Room is such a lonely place:
It’s filled with sounds of patience wearing thin
— Or should that be “patients wearing thin”? —
chairs like concrete, too much time to waste,
and people. Lots of people, all in haste
to find out what is wrong with a loved one.
The time creeps by, slowly by . . . and then
a doctor enters with her eyes downcast.
When she lifts them, there are tears, silent tears. . . .
A man in the corner rises from his seat
and approaches her, hesitantly, to hear
the words her eyes have already said. He
collapses, clings to her knees . . . clings to his fears . . .
while I take unobtrusive notes on grief.
H
A
M N
M Y G
I I E
N C O R
S K E L E T O N S
E O
E I S
P N E
T
Don’t you?
A heart of gold I do not hold for you;
A dozen roses still remain un-plucked;
So many things I would not do for you,
and still I can’t believe my rotten luck —
I’ve told you “Go away” so many times
and changed the locks on every single door —
Why can’t you heed these words and blatant rhymes?
There’s nothing left between us anymore!
So take this sonnet that I wrote for you
and stuff it in a place that’s always dark —
That’s all that’s left for both of us to do,
so let’s not tarry long before we start.
She left with droopy eyes and sorrowed face —
I find that something’s missing at my place.
Robert Hansen currently teaches philosophy and ethics at a community college. He has had over 50 poems and 14 stories published. His most recent work has appeared in Calliope, Carcinogenic Poetry, and The Fifth Dimension.
ISSUE:
W I N T E R
2012
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