Jon Wolston's Poetry Archive

Go past the granite icehouse with the red door
beside Lake Wicwas
to the dogleg with the narrow bridge
where you slow down to 2o
and fishermen lean out over the reeds,
and listen
for Ronnie Earl’s soul coming down
the abandoned railroad tracks.

Gravel on the rug.
A red squirrel freezing and
giving me the eye.

Gomez clattering
down the stairs at 3 a.m.
in his high-heeled boots
to give CPR
somehow led me to believe
I could do it too.

Warm breezes at last.
Blackberries so succulent,
the Whalers droning.

In the dark we swim:
sweet ripples, a crescent moon,
fireworks on the hill.

D. H. Melhem noodled up and down her lines like Charlie Parker
blowing sixteenth notes past bow-tied Brahmans,
getting down faster than the Coney Island Express.

It’s a cool night walking home up Benefit Street
the luvwaft palpable
purple lilacs lacing the utmosphere
bricks clicking like hi-hats
high-heels climbing out of Big Daddy’s Taxi
on the Way to Somewhere,
no coat, no money, no slavery.

Da-boodlio-pa-dee-daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa .

Troy splays his pink jowls,
thrilling to a tummy rub:
all four paws drooping.

High-perched and sprightly,
a green maelstrom of chirping
inherits the yard.

For how many June nights
has the moon arced high above Sandwich Range,
before disappearing like a St. Joseph Aspirin
in God’s belly?

Having to pee at night, also known as nocturia,
reveals any number of such pale arcs
to those of us
who awaken from dreaming so hard.

For how many June mornings
has the heron sailed so close along the shore line,
before vanishing in the woods like some winging
in God’s dream?

Reading distractedly, long known as a feature of ADD,
unveils any number of such sudden flights
to those of us
who awaken from thinking so hard.

For how many June afternoons
have my sons and I cooled our jewels together
putting the raft in the lake,
our scrotums tightening in unison?

Being older, also known as all-wetness,
discloses any number of such shrinking moments
to those of us
who awaken from counting so much.

Scaling our oak
as the labs bark a chorus:
four black bear paws.

I can’t wait this out:
a  porcupine in boxers
heads for the men’s room.