TOM'S POETRY CHANNEL

OCTOBER SKY

In pj’s we pad over dewy grass

in the October chill

to mount the ’48 Plymouth

lying like a cold black boulder

under a studded nightvelvet sky

(me on the roof—on my back)

 

And we are early

so it’s like the drive-in movies

dark enough for the impatient horns

to start honking, only we’re not out here

for a comedy or cowboy flick

but something dark, something sci-fi

 

Something Flash Gordonish—

because nothing but the Aurora Borealis,

the random meteor, or the blinking beacon

of your occasional prop-driven airliner

ever moves up there

in our nightsky

 

And so we fidget

waiting on that corner of heaven

we’ve been warned to watch

whispering in hushed reverence

and consulting the big radium-dial

Dad keeps in his pocket

 

When suddenly:

There it is! There! Right there! See it!?

The first untwinkling ‘star’

ever

swimming across the big dipper

plotting a geometrically-precise

 

Straight line and clocking

a faster transit of the firmament

than a four-engine TWA—

stunned with awe, we quietly mouth

the holy word…

 

Sputnik…

KLONDIKE RECESS

The spring playground
muddy as a main street
from the forgotten
Klondike Gold Rush days

Peopled with forty little
“dangerous” Dan McGrews
hell-bent, big-time
wannabe-gamblers, all—

Cow-licked hustlers
rubes in little suspenders
beneath mothball-fresh
spring jackets

Some pirouetting spastically
on the heels of their galoshes
gouging casino craters
out of the wet spring gravel

Each with his pinchable
poke of precious nuggets:
cats'-eyes and clearies
and double-centers

Aggies… swirls…
steelies and moonstones…
most bragging manfully
of past conquests

And bankrupted foes…
speculating on
jackpot futures
of marble millions—

First a little game of "funsies"
to draw in the crowd
and then “keepsies” to
separate the men from the boys

And the boys from the marbles…

And there’s a sucker born every minute!

JUMPING INTO SPRING

Rin Tin Tin!
Swallowed a pin!
Went to the doctor
but the doctor wasn't in!

Two girls
two rising and falling
playground pistons
flouncing pigtails and ponytails
between a pair of stoic sisters
cranking the jump rope
weaving the jump rope into
a blurred cocoon
between the snow windrows
and mud puddles

Opened the door!
Fell on the floor!
A that was the end of
Rin Tin Tin!

And the flock of little
mothers' kerchiefed-daughters
sweater-breasted
mitten-winged
recess sparrows
ring ‘round the recess ritual
of early spring

In comes the doctor!
In comes the nurse!
In comes the lady with
the big fat purse!

Someone cackles
Salt & pepper!
And the cadence accelerates

Outgoesthedoctor!
Outgoesthenurse!
outgoestheladywith
thebigfatpurse!

TRAVELOGUE

The screen door slams and the headlines cry

Ike! and Ted Williams!

while the Philco way in the back cranks out

The Ballad of a Teenage Queen

 

My Red Ball Jets pad reverently

over the oil-darkened hardwood past the

register’s ka-ching-promise of

Indian head pennies in your change…

 

Down the aisle of warped shelving

stacked like the walls of Jericho

the Prince macaroni boxes elbowing

the Campbell soup cans

 

Through the ripe-banana

apple-onion medley

with its pungent tang of white cheddar

from the cheesewheel-under-glass

 

Past glass-bottled fresh white milk

chilling in the refrigerated window display

bottle-capped with collectable redeemable

half-dollar-size cardboard discs

 

And on down to the back where

sea-glass green Coke bottles languish like

lobsters neck-deep in the ice water of

the open-top fire-engine-red holding tank

 

Beneath the fading, once festive

Fanta, Fudgesicle, Moxie and Necco signs

and all those dangling amber banana-curls of

slime-gummy fly-paper, houseflies raisin-glued

 

Above the jaundiced jars of  pickled eggs

pickled spiced sausages and those wax-papered

Italian sandwiches stacked atop the meat counter

calling my name

BORN TO LOSE

You could usually be found 

 

in your steel-toed engineer boots

fearing no evil down in the

valley of the shadows

 

under the marquee's

dying red neon

reflecting off

the bumper-hubcap chrome of somebody's

low-slung Merc' with the windows cracked

and The Crystals belting out your

personal soundtrack:

He's a rebel and he'll

never be any good

and you manning the night,

our graveyard-shift

sidewalk superintendent

 

our grim midnight crossing-guard,

our small-town cross between

James Dean and Brando

 

with a little James Coburn sprinkled

around that toothpick or Lucky

poking out the corner of your rugged mug

 

and ‘Born to Lose’ tattooed

big and blue like a bad bruise

on the back of your wrist

and we half-pint, shrimp-boat

wannabe street-urchins hanging

pilot-fish-close when the bullies

 

put the pressure on because

belying all that bad-assss badness

was a scarred, tarnished-white

 

knight willing (for some reason)

to champion the justice of us

little guys and underdogs

 

looking up to you through your

crummy self-esteem and wishing

that we too (like you) could be

born to lose