Emalisa Rose

Stuff

Sixty-five, down the parkway. Then
twenty miles more, straight on Main.

Exit on left. Passing the usual
the same broken streetlight, the
billboards of tropical places and
the one of the flooring company
with the cracker jack jingle.

Turn the corner, round Fifth
by that mansion with seventeen
statues of Mary.

Susan checks in..one more time.

For her, it was scotch.

And a boatload of other “stuff.”

 

In a name

Latter days August
with pencils and sketch pads
port wine and poetry
the graffiti of one thousand and one
wild flowers, embeds in the earth
alongside us.

Here in this place
where we loved for a season
where time never broke for us.

But I wish I’d remembered
your name.

Bras, bloomers, and Miralax

They sent Peter this time.

They usually send Tony.
Tony the talker
the guy with the comb over
black brillo mustache
and big boy sized coveralls.

Tony talks baseball, '69 Woodstock,
Nascar and Scooby Doo. I let him
drone on, when he's plunging
and snaking, the tank of the toilet.

But this time, It's Peter. Peter,
the powerhouse, biceps and triceps
black wavy hair and
those “come fuck me eyes.”

Expecting old Tony, I never thought twice
of that sink full of dishes, the bras and
the bloomers, the half pint of Hennessy
and that bottle of Miralax

all on full view, on the countertop
where I wanna play plumber with Peter on.

 

 When not writing poetry, Emalisa Rose enjoys crafting. She walks with a birding group on Sundays. She volunteers in animal rescue. Her latest collection is On the whims of the crosscurrents, published by Red Wolf Editions