Bad Poetry Corner

Harsh are the lights from the city
and the coldness in your voice interupts
my favorite daydream.

We are back after a long
drive in the inky darkness of the countryside.

I looked at the lit windows of the houses
dotting the evening land like fireflies on a dark July night.
It was warm. We had the windows down. You turned the radio off.
I could hear the crickets chirping. I could smell the cows in the fields

I looked at the lit windows of the houses
and I wonder about the people inside.
Were they happy?
Did they like living in the inky darkness of the countryside?
Did they know that people were driving by, looking at their windows
and wondering about their lives?

I turned and watched you as you drove.
Your eyes looking straight ahead,
your mouth set in a disapproving frown.
Would you live with me in a little house in the inky darkness of the countryside?
People would drive past, staring at our lit windows and wonder about our lives.

If they could look in the windows they would see us sitting in our chairs.
I would be watching you as you read.
Your eyes looking down at your book.
Your mouth set in a disapproving frown.

The two women faced off in the ring.
Pat, wearing a tight orange bikini,
brief enough to call attention to the tattos on her back.
Randy, wearing a fake leather bra and tight boy-shorts.

Randy's husband is down in front.
He's the one wearing the t-shirt with the sleeves cut off.
It has an American flag on it and on the back it says,
"God Bless America" and "Remember 9-11-01"
His pick-up truck is parked outside on the gravel lot, and it has
a Vietnam Vet bumper sticker on it.

He drinks one beer after another, his mouth moving constantly.
Occasionally he sprays beer out of his mouth onto Randy to cool her down.

Men keep coming into the windowless building,
their workboots echoing on the cement floor.
There is no music, no scantily clad barmaids taking drink orders.
There is no short man wearing a bow tie, offering a play by play of the fight.

There is only the sound of chairs scraping the floor.
There is only the sound of the men
yelling obscenities at the sweaty fighting women,
screaming at them to "toughen up" and "fight like a man",
calling them names like "bitch" and "slut".

There is a man, taking money at the door.
He yells to a nervous newcomer, "This ain't no WWF! This is for real man."
The man has never been any place like this.
He wants to be above it. He wants to find it disgusting.
But his eyes are drawn to the women in the ring.
Unwanted urges stir inside of him.

Early Spring

trickling

d
-o
--w
---n

the drainpipe, the rainwater smelled fresh

like a baby, fresh from its bath.
like freshly washed hair.

I skipped happily

d
-o
--w
---n

the stairway, on my way out to the field
to play.

After the storm, the sky was blue and the wind
blew too.

I ran outside and

d
-o
--w
---n

the hill. The yellow fields beckoned me.

the sky was blue
the fields were yellow
spring was in the air
everywhere.

I could hear the birds twittering
I could hear the brook babbling

I lay

d
-o
--w
---n

in the yellow fields
and watched the plane flying slowly through the air.

I could hear the whine of its engine
I could hear the birds twittering
I could hear the brook babbling.

I lay back against the long stalks
of Queen Anne's Lace.

I disappeared into the weeds.

I no longer saw my house
I no longer saw my hill
I no longer saw the plane.

It was just me and the weeds
and the blue sky.