Joe Cottonwood

My Summer of Breasts

Once I grew breasts.
I was 55 years old.
They bounced when I descended stairs.
Not big, not bra-worthy.
But breasts. With hair.

I was working on a roof, sweaty.
A man whistled, laughed.

Sometimes one must get serious
about diet. I dropped 36 pounds.

I don’t miss them.
Women can nurture.
I envy that.
But I can work on roofs
with my shirt off.
Nobody whistles.

 

Broken

The weak point
of any push broom
is where the handle
attaches to the base.
This one snapped, rusty
but I am a handy person
so I cut the hollow metal tube
with my recipro saw,
insert a steel pipe nipple,
fasten with a hose clamp
and — Voila!

Bristles are strong,
good for more years.
If only you, child
were a broom.

 

We visit Edgar in Oregon

Me and Rose, we ring the cowbell on a rope.
Edgar greets us in a bathrobe, drunk at noon.
Yep, he had a breakdown. Urbane, witty,
after 60 years in St. Louis Edgar went west,
bought a farmhouse surrounded by apples.

He used to woo me in college. Me, straight.
Edgar, older and closet gay. He wanted to be
the next Norman Mailer. Said I was his muse.

Through bourbon slur Edgar tells me he’s
banned from local basketball after he kicked
a hotshot in the nuts. Says civil writers
produce civil art. Civil with a sneer. I say
humane writers produce humane art.

Rose says “Edgar, you seem unhappy.”
He scowls. Always hated her. Always jealous.
“Pick apples,” he says. “Fill your little wagon.”
We do. Then Rose offers to bake Edgar a pie.
“Pie and mommy,” he says. “Sheesh.”
“Let’s leave,” says Rose.

We drive south on I-5. Apple scent
from the back of our little wagon
my last memory of Edgar who keeps
a pistol in a desk drawer. Back home,
I will not answer the phone. Don’t want
that news. Rose bakes pies for all our friends.
Naturally sweet, no sugar added.

 

Skinny-dipping on drugs

Lost in black sky, dark water,
I swim to lakeshore and here I stand naked,
cold, a stranger by your campfire
and you are frightened.

My penis is small.
It shrinks in cold water.
All men think their peni are too small.
All women think their bodies are misshapen.
Am I talking too much? Sorry I’m stoned but
that’s the thing about naked,
our minds go straight to our flaws,
real or imagined. And we all have flaws.
Just not the ones we’re aware of.

I’m looking straight into your eyes.
You look away.
Eye to eye is truly naked.

Now you glance at my penis, you can’t help it.
That’s how men look at breasts.
Can’t help it, we’re curious.

Funny, I’m the one who’s bare.
You’re the one embarrassed.
Sorry.

 

Joe Cottonwood has repaired hundreds of houses to support his writing habit among the redwood trees in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California. His books of poetry are Son of a Poet, Foggy Dog, and Random Saints. His website is joecottonwood.com