This was written before I decided to turn the Strauss poems into a series. It is now the sixth poem in the collection.
****
A chubby, bronzed thumb plucks
needless tears from
a flushed face, discarding them quickly onto
the ground.
Commanded to supper, he gallops
past muted white
bells as April’s fleeting sweetness runs down
his chin.
One more night in the burning box.
One more day in the sullied streets.
Grey battered erasers–once a perfect
pink–pressed upon for endless years,
dangle against bony shoulders.
Another afternoon.
Silent stones recline in expectant tombs.
Even if they had tongues, they would not
speak. Their surrender is complete.
One more day in the sullied streets.
One more night in the burning box.
mistakes
and false fancies
betray the feisty fakes
who have been attempting to seize
our keys
K—for Katherine—he scrawls.
Beneath a bluebird,
three fat orange slices soak up tender
afternoon light.
Yet, those waxy, mirthful mouths
do not console
the haggard cherub who bawls softly inside
the nursery.
“Quit playing in trees,” she said.
How could she possibly know
that these arms are my refuge
and that this broken coat is my
home?
This birthday is a time to think
of moments now gone by,
while sipping on a vinous drink
until your glass is dry.
Inside my ear there dwelt a mouse
who lived within a ham hock house.
He liked to sport a three-piece suit
and toot upon a Gouda flute,
but when he jammed all through the night,
we fell against one nasty fight,
and thus he split in a sedan
stitched from a quilted frying pan.
“Goodnight,” he chirped with a swing
of his cane and a tip of his hat. And at
that moment the sky came crashing
down. A delicate crown of light
slipped over my head, yet darkness
was all that I knew. The wind blew
him farther and farther away from me.
Tepid mint tea briefly lingered on my
baffled tongue. I was young once
Mama is the quiet one,
like the small,
pretty angel that sits up on our
Christmas tree.
Papa is the noisy one,
like the big,
angry wind that rattles my bedroom window
at night.
trumpets
raised to heaven
bellow for three cadets
whose days beneath the cruel sun
are done
sundry folly 