Joe Cottonwood

Toast

On magnificent wings
a great blue heron in the golden dawn
glides to a stop
where power lines sag on steel poles
to a stop
on a silver thread of shine
to a stop
bringing velocity sideways swinging the line
to a stop
contacting the next line
to a stop
POP
and heron is no more.

Power out for two hours.
Toast untoasted. Eggs unfried. Coffee unbrewed.
It is our own fault, this inconvenience,
don ’t blame the bird. Your fault. Mine.
Our dollars bought this design.
Singed feathers float over the marsh,
a reminder, a memorial,
if we care to see.

Stranger

If you give me ten dollars, I ’ll tell you what ’s wrong.
No? Then five will do.
Hey, one dollar, okay?
Thank you.
Now here ’s what ’s wrong: you ’re a cheapskate.
I shouldn ’t have to grovel.
Can ’t you see? I need help.
Not food, not a bed. I need cash.
I ’m saving for an atomic bomb.
Just a small one. For peaceful purposes.
Trust me, I ’ve seen war.
I don ’t want to hurt nobody.
Not even you.

Snitch

Mrs. Segar says
“Phone me immediately
if that impudent little shit
shows up here skipping school.”
Tina is in the same class as my son, age 14.
She ’ll catch your eye. The little shit
is taller than the mom, skinny, pale blond
with wild eyes and hairy legs.

I ’m stapling wires in the crawlspace
creeping on belly between dirt and floor joists
sharing space with leggy spiders 
when I hear footsteps above, two sets.
A boy ’s voice (not my son) “I don ’t have—”
and Tina ’s voice “Here ’s one”
and Tina again “Hold it against the tip
and then roll it down. Do you want me to—”
as I am crawling through dust
to the exit—a hole in the foundation
—and then out and around to the kitchen door
the phone on the wall making as much noise
as possible. My sympathy would be with
boy virgin venturing into mysteries
but I work for she who hires me.

Tonight, my son who seems so young
will have no comment except to say
“You ’re a snitch.” “Do you hang with Tina?”
“She ’s weird.” Awkward silence.
"If… I mean… If weird Tina…
Will you please use a condom?”
“I always do.”

 

Joe Cottonwood has repaired hundreds of houses to support his writing habit in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California. His latest books of poetry are Foggy Dog and Random Saints.