Robert M. Zoschke

Way Up North in Battleground State Wisconsin

the tourist pulls into the corner store parking lot
inching along in his gleaming Mercedes SUV
with the FIB plates identifying him before he
exits the vehicle in his Univ. of Illinois stocking cap
Patagonia quasi windbreaker and corduroy pants

I watch through the window as the tourist
waltzes over to inspect the Premium gas pump
he’s swinging his arms so his gold watch and gold bracelet
are on display while he attempts conversation with the two
electricians putting a new ballast in the light above the pumps

Mr. Tourist shuffles into the store looking at his shiny new
leather shoes to make sure no debris has touched them
then he points his arm over the counter so I can see it’s
not just a gold watch but a Rolex with diamonds on it
and I’m ready for winter when they’re all fucking gone
what’s it with all you guys in just your shirtsleeves he says
I’m about to tell him it’s still Indian Summer up here but his hands
start piano playing the counter like he’s Billy Fucking Joel in concert
why don’t any of the stations have 93 octane premium up here he says
you and the rest only have 91 and my Mercedes dealer says to use 93
making me conjure a poem with 93 ways he can go fuck himself
and those electricians out there, they sure are focused on that job
I tried talking to your electricians and they didn’t even say a word to me

Mr. Tourist defiantly strolls away from the counter to check out the store
he comes back bitching that we’re out of stock on bottles of Smart Water
I almost tell him he’s not the only genius who comes in for Smart Water
instead I mention our Wisconsin Spring Water then Mr. Tourist starts
demanding to know why he was disrespected by those electricians

I take a deep breath and remind myself to be Politically Correct
well, sir, if you really want guys like that to talk to you up here
you need to move up here and maybe in ten years they’ll talk to you 

 

Lyric for the Elusive Muse

she was the first to call me Hoss
and when it came from her lips
it sounded sweeter than a soprano
sax note from Coltrane’s gilded horn
and she had me right then and there
hook line and sinker…

just to watch the symmetry of her
not walking but actually flowing
buoyed by Ancestral Spirit winds
made the feel of her so anticipated
it was wildfire on stage next to her
smack dab in the glow of her…

and then came our infamous stroll
slowly across Central Ave in Louisville
against traffic and yes it had me
hearing Bob Seger in my head
I’m older now but still
runnin’ against the wind…

having watched that hand of hers
form chords on her guitar frets
as if her fingers sprinkled magic dust
I could envision our hands fitting together
right there under the gleaming
high noon Bluegrass sun…

she had just ditched her husband for good
and with Bob Seger’s wisdom in my head
I reached for her fingertips
then a tweak of her wrist and a darting away
and her words tumbled forth like a song
I don’t want to be seeing anyone right now…

it was my final meal in Louisville before
barreling my ’94 Buick Roadmaster onto I-65
heading the wrong way over the river bridge
all the way to far northeastern Wisconsin
to a writer’s shack in the woods with a mail box
where her handwritten letter arrived…

the ornate soft power of her penmanship
casting the same marvels as the rise
and fall of her songbird voice on stage
the words she wrote a lyric of their own
It’s special to me that you chose me for company that day
Hoss, your head’s bigger than that burrito you ordered…

halfway around the world with her
sleeping on the floor
in overpriced undersized rooms
across the ritzy glitzy side of London
caught in the off-stage cesspool of mania
after we didn’t bow out of those gigs with her ex…

watching my book and her singing steal the shows
fans lining up after the gigs in front of her and me
leaving her ex despondent and the Brits quizzical
never having seen a Kentucky Native Barefoot Songbird
and a Chi Town Big Head smoking unfiltered American Luckies
Hoss, we didn’t bring enough books and CDs with us…

bringing her all the way up north into the Wisconsin woods
to headline waterfront sunset gigs along the Big Lake harbor
giving her the reins to be the reigning Queen in my writer’s shack
mornings spent watching her willow her way out of the guest bedroom
on her way outside to stand majestically in the front yard
facing the Spirit Wind as the rising sun glistened her onyx hair…

early dinners at the hoity toity tourist joints in town before the gigs
the Kentucky Girl Charm School beauty of her as she noticed
everybody in those joints looking back and forth at her and me
followed by that chuckle-smile of hers each time I reminded her
there wasn’t a man or woman in those joints who could figure out
how a woman like her was out on the town with a guy like me…

and then the passing of decades in the manner decades come and go
years of her raising kids in the hills and me raising kids in the woods
and the tumult that comes to us creative types when the joy of those kids
and the valor of being a Mom in the hills and a Dad in the Woods
entwines with the anti-creative shit stirring in the Hootenanny of Life
Hoss, I’m calling so late because… 

 

Robert M. Zoschke is the Editor of the literary arts annual CLUTCH, and the author of numerous books of poetry, fiction, and nonfiction.