Viewfinder for the Divine (F.B. Wood)

My eyes are not my own

For twenty five cents and

The clockwise spin

Of their wrists

Celestial bodies

Folding their wings

To vacate their duties

Among the stars

Taking witness to

Petal-ed beauties floating

Down rocky streams

Only to sail out

Among the endless blue

Vastness to salt

Click

The lens shift to black

A tickle on the back of my head

I reach to scratch 

To find drops of water

Even when it isn’t raining

Some Thoughts on Math 101 (James Lucas)

What is the point of learning this?

Why not teach me something useful

like how to be a good father

or how to make a Denver omelet.

Some basic auto repair skills

would be most helpful

Or at least teach me how to find

a good mechanic. 

Teach me to keep the women in my life

from walking away.

Or how to get a great deal on airfare.

You know, I never did learn

how to play the piano

or to make a flaming rum punch.

And how does one get a spaghetti stain

out of a white tee-shirt?

I’d like to know what that girl

looks like naked,

the one over there who looks just as bored

as I am

and I want to know how it feels

to fly.

Teach me how to corrupt computer files

so that I never have to pay bills again.

Show me how to avoid an IRS audit.

Teach me

anything but this.

The Waitress (James Lucas)

She lived in a land

of hash browns and

greasy countertops.

Where half-eaten pie

sat beneath a grimy dome,

where the coffee was always brewing

and the barstools had beige upholstery

that had split open

like a wound.

At the cash register sat Peggy

a new romance paperback every day,

spine broken,

a bright red press-on nail

gliding under each word as she read.

Sometimes a song came from

the glowing amber jukebox next to the men’s room

and that song

would make the waitress think

of her son,

it would be the kind of music he liked,

all noise and make up.

She would smile

in a melancholy way.

She always smiled at the wrong time.

Smirking at the boy’s funeral

as his father made a scene,

an obedient new wife at his side.

Hollow, with a

bemused expression

she had pretended not to hear the whispers

of gossiping mourners.

She refilled the coffee cup

of a trucker who looked

at her with disinterested,

piggy eyes.

Twenty years ago, he would

have called her “sugar”

and left a large tip,

winking at her

as he took a toothpick.

In the corner booth

were teenagers

who called her “ma’am”

in a way that made her feel old.

In the back was Frank

the fry cook

who still helped her into her coat

and held doors for her.

A good man

a vanishing species.

Sometimes,

when it was slow,

she’d stand back there with Frank

as he talked about his grandkids

and she’d stare into the

bubbling oil

and fight the urge

to dive headfirst.

Fly Fishing with A. A. Milne (J.T. Wall)

 

 

John has great big waterproof waders;

John has great big pockets in his vest;

John has a creel,

A rod and reel,

And polarized shades

Cause they’re the best.

 

John has a pair of non-slip shoes on;

John has stuff to repel the gnat;

John has a net,

A snake bite kit,

And good luck charms

Hanging from his hat.

 

John has only one big wish:

“if I could move at all

I’d catch a fish.”