Just a child scrambling
across my nightstand,
desperate for a drink,
his water dish chapped
and clammy. Just a kid
slipping on a cell phone
as he tries to sip from
a man’s glass, falls into
that dark unknown,
flails for any sort
of purchase, claws bared.
Needles in my face,
my nose, my forehead.
Blood on the sheets.
What did I expect,
leaving his bowl
empty in the night?
Lincoln’s green & gold wool
slippers, at size 14, were too big
to fill. Goats embroidered in gold
& beige, squatting on two
shades of cabbage. Two-toned
horns spiking up & ears lifted
& wide open. Remember
his formal stovepipe
hat & black broadcloth
coattails down
to his knees? His penchant for
melancholy & kids dead
too soon? He was also free
spirited & whimsical, a tolerant
parent. He allowed Willie
& Tad to raise Nanny, Nanko,
& Jack, pardoned turkey at the White
House. While Lincoln shuffled
from bedroom to study mulling
the days to come, Nanny
could be found chewing
cud nonchalantly in Tad’s
bedroom. The boys hitched
the goats to kitchen
chairs & darted across the main
floor causing well-dressed
women to pull up their hoop
skirts to make a wider
path. Abraham didn’t like
being called Abe but he loved
losing an hour on the presidential
lawn to play goofy games with his boys
& beloved goats. At times he greeted
official guests with hair
disheveled & slippered
feet. Does it matter
that he wore those slippers
down to his last day? That he
bragged about his goats for their
gentleness & intelligence? That he
was smitten with his pardoned
turkey? I will let you answer
those questions for yourself.
if i were blind
born without sight
i would grow old
knowing his smell
was different from hers,
personalities through barks
or bites, and lips-skinny
or thick-by the touch
of finger tips, or a day’s
toils and labors, tastes
blindness savors.
if i were born blind
i would know ugly
as a trait opposite
beauty and kind,
but if i became blind
today, i would be lost,
unable to find my way.
a life without colors
or even shades of gray
would be agony.
the pleasures of sight
make my world divine
as long as i remember
to close my eyes and see
I must live humanely.
To whom it may concern,
My sincerest apologies,
I know
it was my fault.
I let my heart
speak, rather than listening
to my brain—
it’s only
“book smart”
though so you
shouldn’t have trusted me
in the first place.
I was “selfish” you
snarled as your teeth
wrecked together. I guess
it could be screwed that way
if you think
about it long enough.
Once again,
my bad.
Sincerely,
Someone who should
have tried harder
Champion of Breakfasts
The mysteries of Sunday breakfast include
how to drain the griddle of grease,
how to fry the eggs without breaking yolk,
how to fold omelets into perfect half moons.
All these matters mystify me as much
as operating a bush hog,
firing up the four-wheel-drive Kubota, or
casting a fly rod into fast-moving stream.
Yet, you’ve managed them all, first
with two hands, then after your stroke,
with just the left, right hand craned
into place from the shoulder,
your mouth set
to fine-tune
and tight-line
deliberate strength.
set up a call
early Thursday
senior leadership
sixty minutes
one-item agenda:
crash
attach latest data
track and record updates
action items:
determine next steps
define required resources
assign team leads
set deadlines
set up a call
early Monday
senior leadership
sixty minutes
agenda:
action item updates
staffing
set up a call
Monday afternoon
HR officer and lawyer
sixty minutes
one-item agenda:
layoffs
Pine Mountain Cemetery VII
Kelly
Circus clown, paints a grin, juggles with
Eye trick that take our minds from worlds
Of pain we would not believe if told.
Kelly, a runaway, orphan, shock of golden hair,
Stocky, short, strong, angry, defenses always up,
Stormed her classroom and made sanctuary.
The briefest respite from the torture that cratered
His mind into chambers of forgetfulness. His stories
Took students, teacher, his world to another land.
He hid in those recesses that protected him
From blows from one who should have cared but
Instead sought release through Kelly’s stripes.
With his stories he bought a fragile fame,
A place to hide for time enough to heal and hope.
A tiny piece of his world held out a promise
Way too late to heal a broken boy alcohol
Soon found, and drugs and speeding cars.
College classes too weak to hold the damage.
Red balls of pain, fear, anger spiraled beyond
His reach. They sent his body back. Teacher
Found a place for what was left of the clown
With a song too sweet to save the child.
Thornton Wilder could write the boy’s cover
Stories told in this cemetery to those who rest
near him in his uneasy sleep.
I thought my voice was to small to be heard, so I kept my mouth shut
And when the people were screaming for help, I did not raise my hand because I thought there was nothing I could do
When the marches started, I thought they didn’t need another sign, so I locked myself inside
And when time went on as the violence rose, as the people begged for justice, I kept my face a mask
Not advocating for either side
My silence did not make me neutral, but made me cruel
The lack of a voice only gave more power to the opressors
I was just as much of a villian
And when I realized my mistake, I was already on the wrong side of history
Don’t be on the wrong side, lend your voice, your dollars, your hope
We are a force and we demand justice.
The Family Tree
I come from a family of trees
rooted in tradition
morality
prejudice
and pride.
We’ve been up and down
through death and divorce
rum and religion.
Father died young
he was a willow
and a part of me died with him.
But now,
I sit in the shade
of an Oak tree
Mother Oak
who spreads her branches
to shelter us from the world.
Without bending
she’s weathered many storms.
She knows me,
for I am her.
The acorn of her soul.
Tony Sexton
