“Let me tell you a story.”
The girl stared at the ceiling, and as her father sat on the edge of the bed she scooted back to keep her distance. She sighed meaningfully while her father began talking.
“When I was in high school they had a big Trivial Pursuit contest out on the quad.” The girl had never played the game, and probably didn’t know what a quad was, but she didn’t ask for clarification so her father pressed on. “We had a pretty good team. We were all honors students. Continue reading Cheaters
A little space here
which I have walked into
where love resides but lies hidden,
gathers dust. A quiet space
where love resides but relaxes
and changes its clothes.
I can’t make it out.
The light is uncomfortably dim,
but comfortable almost in the non-knowledge
that love resides,
that it rests in a chair, which squeaks,
and carries on its business.
Answers letters, pays bills,
A small space,
but freedom to move,
and a window, thankfully, hopefully,
upon the world.
[Full disclosure: this is poem #6 in a series of poems mentioned here.]
Who is it tonight? The quiet one, all darting eyes and monosyllables? The bore, spouting barely understood scientific theories? The smiler and nodder? The nerd? Maybe, just maybe, the interesting one?
Which version of myself showed up?
Oh, right, the distracted one.
“Here, read this. Forty-two words.”
“Okay…” She reads. “I like it, but I don’t get where it says ‘explicably’.”
“I meant ‘inexplicably.'”
“Did you get that it’s at a hospital?”
“Oh! No…” She reads again. “His leg is missing?”
my pitiful heartache.
I looked up at the end to see
my reading had emptied the joint.
I’m through with this city.
Or it with me.
[A mirror cinquain, inspired by Yeah Write’s March poetry slam. I cheated a little by having three syllables on the first and last lines.]
We’re waiting and joking anxiously outside the famous pizzeria. A meekly smiling man shuffles through, extending an upturned hand to each. A woman averts her nose. My hand stays in my pocket. Before leaving he frowns in genuine despair over his shoulder.
We mixed it with coke and read aloud the only play we had with two copies. “Thrift, Horatio!” “To a nunnery, go!” We stumbled, spake, drew swords. Morning found retched scrambled eggs on my bedroom rug. No method in it but friendship.