Polyester Never Wrinkles

Sometimes I see you

straight as you ever were,

teased and sprayed Seventies high. 

King James in one arm,

purse padlocked to the other. 

You say my birth name in a voice

this side of reluctance; 

ask if I remember to pray,

keeping in mind I might die

before I wake. 

Disappointment plowed

a furrow in your Midwest brow

that ran between us like a dry iron.

I was a run in your Sunday hose,

but polyester never wrinkles.

tk/April 2015



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Elegy

This autumn finds you

removed from anyone who knew.

Only the maple is at your mercy;

its leaves crunch around the stone

with enough respect.  

I no longer panic about the cracks.

The uncomfortable damp.

Something from the basement

is buried with secrets.

The dreams have stopped.

Your eyes stay in their sockets;

two dark-stained walnuts,

bitter and tenacious.

All the dead are pious.

It suits you.

tk/October 2014



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Nefertiti

Mummy dearest,

corkscrewed queen,

embedded six feet down.

Headpiece removed,

your skull looks normal;

too much like mine.

The gods are relieved your reign is complete.

Plague, Old Testament kind;

blood, locusts, first born.

Did they bury you fancy,

with rings on; the sapphire

I gave you for your birthday.

Rest.  There will be no dig; no museum,

no squandering of your remains,
no flowers.

tk/July 2014

Beautifully read by R.A.D. Stainforth ...

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