Poem Fix . . .

8/9/12

15 Item Limit

The woman behind me objects.
You have more than 15 items.
I look in my basket.
Nineteen.
Close enough, I say.
She puts her hands on her hips and looks at me as if
I am the worst person in the world.
She points at the sign.
I say, Three apples count as one item.
She shakes her head and says, That's still too many.
Sour face.
I shrug, turn away,
No time for petty bitches,
Put my groceries on the moving belt.
That man has too many items, she tattles to the cashier,
Who looks at me with understanding eyes.
Her name tag says DEBBIE, and she says,
I'll go faster then, and gives me what I think is a wink.
The impatient lady sighs, Well fine then.
I nod thanks to Debbie who says My pleasure, and
I fall in love with her on the spot.
Debbie is probably too old for me, but overcomes it with
An agreeable demeanor and accommodation,
Magnetic and somehow erotic.
If I lean over to kiss her she would not resist,
I'm sure.
Nice of you, I whisper so no one will hear.
Do you need some help out? she asks..
Yes, I say bravely, If it's you.
Debbie smiles warmly and seems to understand my interest.
I'll get a bag boy to help you, she says, But I think you can handle it, right?
It is her polite way of dismissing an infatuation she sees all day.
I can, I say.
Debbie holds out my receipt and I touch her hand taking them.
She doesn't pull away, but looks me straight in the eye and says,
Have a great rest of the day.
I hang my head, lift my two bags, and
Glance back at the woman who is nudging her basket toward me.
Some people don't have any manners and don't know how to count, she says,
Some people.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo by Poemfix

8/8/12

Miami and Israel 1973

They don't have much, but
They never said one time,
I would like to swap positions with you.
Not once.
They want to build up the country and maybe be like the U.S.,
Strong.
Sure, there are some complaints.
They think they are better Jews than you.
But maybe they have a right to think it, no?
Maybe they feel like they do more than we do for a country that's ours,
That we share.
And all we give is maybe money.
For they give their blood,
Blood and sweat, really.
And hard labor.
But, oh, the way those women look down on American women.
They think we're pampered,
Pampered spoiled brats.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com and Ruth Petrovsky 2012
Photo by ארכיון גן-שמואל

8/7/12

Settled Love

I tell my husband to empty the kitchen garbage.
He says, I don't know what movies are playing.
He never hears what I'm saying.
I ask again, but emphasize it with just five syllables:
Take Out The Garbage,
And add a question about what that has to do with movies.
He looks up from where he's planted on the couch.
He says, What?
The garbage, I say, losing patience.
I was waiting for please, he says,
Throwing it back on me.
Infuriating.
Please, I say, Jesus.
There it is, he says, That wasn't so hard.
He takes that small victory and rises with great effort.
And we should go see a movie, he says, Anything.
We can see a movie, I say.
He moves slowly for effect and pulls the bag from the kitchen can.
Mister strong man.
I should have done it myself while he was watching,
To show him,
To make him think,
To put everything in my favor.
But now he's trudging outside with the garbage and advantage,
With the weight of our marriage on his side.
I close the door behind him,
Put a fresh bag in the can without waiting to asking him,
Wipe down the counter, and
Pour myself a drink.
Maybe I should have started with please.
I pull one of his beers from the refrigerator and open it,
Standing by the counter, waiting for him to return
So I can offer it with a smile,
This time.
The door opens and he comes inside
With the semblance of our settled love.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo by beervana.blogspot.com

8/6/12

Tired

I'm tired, are you?
Yes, I'm very tired.
I can't remember when I've been so pooped.
Me, too.
But I'm not that tired.
It's OK.
I mean I'm never that tired.
Yeah, but I'm tired so no problem.
I won't be tired if you don't want me to but you look tired, too.
I am.
Because you said you were tired.
Yawn.
See? I knew you were tired.
Yeah.
We need to work on not being tired, right?
I know.
If you're not tired . . .
It's OK, I'm beat.
Let's not be tired tomorrow.
For sure.
Really?
Really.
Promise?
Promise.
I'm feeling good about tomorrow.
Definitely.
It's a plan then.
I'm there.
Me, too, only right now I'm tired. Hello? Hello?

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo by Dori

8/5/12

Consider the Bougainvillea

Consider the bougainvillea's
Unrivaled ironic beauty.
The thorny vine bursts with green leaves and
Wafer thin purple blossoms.
Lovely, splashed from palette,
Growing tall and too heavy,
Weighted, arcing over trellis and
Invading neighbors.
But the paper flowers,
Gentle, baroque,
Do not cling long or tightly to their woody hosts.
A slight wind or brush will loosen them,
Snapping silently,
Twirling to the ground,
Blown about into families of magenta,
Skipping into waiting water and pools,
Floating like lilies.
Absorbing chemicals,
The colorful bracts bleed their pigment,
Turning pale white,
Invisible,
Invading skimmers and filters,
Sticking to tiles,
Causing unceasing
Ugliness and havoc.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo by User:Mattes

8/4/12

Reflection

The young man looks in the mirror.
An old man looks back
With tired eyes that weren't there yesterday.
He plucks a stray grey chest hair,
Measuring himself against an idea and
Friends he doesn't see anymore.
I have more hair than they do, he thinks,
Darker,
Flatter gut,
Face still young.
He doesn't feel as ancient as them
But guesses they must feel the same.
They envy me.
He turns his face in the mirror,
Considers the years,
Things left undone,
Abandoned,
Failures.
He sighs,
No worries,
Brushes his teeth in concert with the
The stranger,
The shadow,
The constant
In the mirror.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

8/3/12

Obama's Bat

The president holds a
Baseball bat,
Fist just under the knob,
Veins pulsing, prominent on the back of his hand.
He's not aware he's grasping it so tightly,
Or even that he's holding it at all.
His attention is elsewhere,
A man a thousand miles away in
Ankara.
They are talking about Syria,
Kurdish fighters,
Civilian casualties,
The worries of the world that fall on men like this.
But he does not release his grip,
An autographed gift from a slugger,
Despite delicate diplomacy.
He taps the bat's fat cup on the hard plastic chair mat,
And his mind wanders to somewhere he'd rather be,
The Cell, Nationals Park,
Sneaking a hearty hot dog,
Anonymous, invisible,
Or being the man at the plate,
A pitch heading his direction,
A deafening stadium
And a small child holding his breath,
Dreaming of a smack he can catch.
If only . . .
He struggles to focus on the Prime Minister,
But no matter.
He has his bat,
A safety line to
Sanctuary.

Official White House Photo by Pete Souza

8/2/12

At Your Sunset

I am sorry your afternoon is
Moving so slowly.
Every day is Saturday,
Which sounds wonderful
But leaves you untethered.
I should have called you before
My phone rang today.
Important news about
Amelia Earhart, and how
Eagle Scouts contribute to society.
I don't need to read The Journal anymore, because I get the good news from you.
I want you all to get along
When I'm gone, you repeat
For the hundredth time,
And don't fight over things.
OK, I promise.
And when you say you are proud
I file that away to use.
Your life, so organized and neat,
Now waits for its finish.
Each day filled with
Anticipation, preparation, wondering,
Perhaps morbidly hoping, if this will be your last,
And remembering one more box to sort through, label, instruct.
Everything orderly and
In its place.
I will sing Red Sails in the Sunset
At your sunset
And then start my own
Too short wait.

Graphic by Nevit Dilmen

8/1/12

Going Commando

The guys in the mail room pledged to
Go commando the next day
And be smug around women in the office.
So I went to work today
Sans underwear,
Leaving modesty behind.
I wore loose jeans so it might not be apparent,
A mistake because the rough material
Rubbed me wrong.
I walked down hallways with my hands deep in my pockets
To keep things in place
As much as possible.
When I saw one from our secret society,
We exchanged smiles, knowing glances, and high fives.
But I began to feel as if people suspected.
They were looking at my waist,
Sneaking peaks at mysterious bulges,
Awkwardly small or large.
I felt alternatively embarrassed and excited.
I hid from most people and perfected talking
While walking away from them.
At the end of the day, safe in my apartment,
I stripped off my clothes and showered
To wash away the ambiguity.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Graphic by Gregory Connor

7/31/12

Russian Cognac

My hosts in Moscow thought I was Russian
Because my surname ends in s-k-y
And is identical to the names of
Famous Russian historical figures, streets, parks, theaters, stadiums.
Two generations ago
My family blood ran in a small village near Minsk,
Where relatives fought through pogroms and other conflicts.
So I suppose I am Russian,
Though I don't speak the language
Nor worship vodka.
But Moscow,
Cold and foreign,
Seemed welcoming and familiar.
I ate at a restaurant with my last name above the door,
Where I was treated like a celebrity,
An expatriate returned in triumph.
The owner asked if I wanted cognac.
I declined, but that meant nothing.
A squat bottle emblazoned with my name was thrust at me
Despite my protestations.
I drank until I couldn't see,
Until I understood the waiter when he said nazdrovia,
Until he invited me to banya, a steam bath.
He was just being friendly but I managed to decline in
Fear, self-doubt and inferiority,
And so became a true Muscovite.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

7/30/12

Claiming Victory

I am trying to think of a way to say
I don't appreciate you
As a human being,
But I won't.
Taking action would reveal the
Size of my ego,
So I'll remain silent.
In you I see someone with an
Angry heart
That demands justification,
Judges people,
Tears them down.
This observation makes me
Just as judgmental, and
Perhaps even a worse person,
Doubly so
Because I observe your failings and
Decide they are faulty.
I measure myself and others as better and
Choose to do nothing.
Your failings are honest and transparent;
Mine are complex, calculated, suppressed.
Please end my misery.
Provide relief by calling me out and
Claiming victory.

Photo by Christopher Walker

7/29/12

Smoked Trout

The clerk says
Smoked trout
Is the best thing in the store,
So I buy eight cans and
Bring them home.
I'm scolded for my extravagance:
Whoever heard of smoked trout?
I say, The guy at the store seemed very high on them.
She says, I sent you there to get vodka.
I'm not sure how to reply other than a lie:
They were out.
She says, You can't drink smoked trout.
I want to yell, but I keep my anger in check by saying,
It's supposed to be amazing.
She looks at me like I'm the biggest
Mistake in her life.
I asked you for
One thing.
When she leaves, I turn on the television
And open a can,
Draining the oil from the shallow rectangle.
I sit in the dark with a small fork and
Eat the fish.
It does taste good,
Incredible.
I change the channels and imagine being alone forever,
Not answering to anyone,
Doing nothing for the rest of my life
Than eat smoked trout in frightful solitude.

Photo by Trader Joe's

7/28/12

Márquez

A college teacher
Died.
He succumbed several months ago
But I didn't learn the news until today.
I barely knew him.
He smoked,
Was an excellent artist, and
Surrounded himself with a
Bohemian harem of young admirers who wanted
Poetic rub off.
I desired that, too, but
Resented his acceptance and encouragement of
Those who worshiped his prose,
Wanted to sleep with him
To slice off a piece of his minor fame.
I hated him, of course,
Longed for praise that never came,
But I am forever grateful because he taught us
Gabriel García Márquez,
Who made us understand the
Promise and potential
Of life and literature,
And the futility of equaling him.
Rest in peace, Steve.
Thank you and damn you.

Photo by Jose Lara

7/27/12

The Death of Dreams

We are told that dreams are
Nothing more than
Electric pulses bouncing off
Filing cabinets in the brain.
This seems unfair because Freud said that
Every dream is a
Secret wish,
And that they reveal the unconscious,
Soul secrets,
Repressed desires,
Regrets.
Experts say that isn't so.
Dreams expose only arbitrary connections from
Random brainwaves.
They hold no more meaning than
Happenstance
Or bumping into a stranger on a train.
Then what of my dream last night
And its strange revelation?
I shall be forced to abandon the important insight
And the changes it would bring,
The better man I would become,
The security and peace that would wash over me,
The idea for this poem.
All of this disposed
In favor of serendipity.

Photo by Lee Jones

7/26/12

We Can Stay In and Play Games

His lover stands at the window,
Gazing at the impenetrable rain,
Dejected,
Her hand flat on the pane.
It's just rain, he says, but her only reply
Is a sigh.
He thinks he ought to join her,
Put his arm around her,
Give her comfort,
Tell her that all her
Great plans
Can wait until tomorrow
Or whenever the storm relents.
But that would take great effort
So he stays sprawled on the bed
In his underwear
With a beer,
And he enjoys the nostalgic smell the
Rain brings,
The mesquite and creosote,
And a particular summer when he was 10.
He thinks it's good that the parched lawn will drink
And the birdbath will be filled.
We can stay in and play games, he says,
But realizes too late it is the wrong thing to say.
She turns to him, then back to the rain that will
Not relent,
Not forgive.

Photo by Frank Vincentz

7/25/12

Woman and Guitar

My new guitar smells like an
Exquisite woman.
Perhaps she is one,
A woman,
Only a bit less lovely and
Soft where it matters.
But the fragrance,
The glue, the wood, the lacquer,
Intoxicating.
I will do almost anything for her,
To preserve the aroma as long as possible,
Keeping the rosewood beauty tucked safely
Inside its luxurious cushioned hard shell case
So it, too, absorbs and
Memorializes the factory tang.
Still, despite my drunken attachment to her,
She is certainly not a woman,
Though I will ply my lover with it and so achieve
Glory.

Photo by Poemfix

7/24/12

Another Damn Poem About Love

Do we really need
Another damn poem about love?
Too many sonnets to muses have been
Written and
Memorized and
Used to nurture intimacy.
I offer this prose to
My only love
To ensure she knows ours is unyielding,
And to fight off those false
Mind monsters
That slither from the deep when we're apart.
I would not know how to find you
If you had not
Found me.
So please accept this,
Another damn poem about love,
Unoriginal yet abiding.

Photo by gnlogic

7/23/12

The Javelinas Came Last Night

The javelinas came last night
As they often do at dusk
When the wind pushes the chimes,
Calling to them.
The dogs sense them first,
Spotting movement and large shadows
Moving through the brush.
Barking doesn't startle the musk hogs
Though they pause to consider the attention.
They scurry quickly, following each other,
Staying close to the pack.
I call my wife who joins me on the deck.
We take turns finding them.
Is that a tree or . . .
As it grows darker we notice a small figure,
A baby that appears lost,
Trailing the rest.
My wife comes closer, touching, worried.
Over there, she says,
As if the animal can understand her urging.
Where's the mother?
The wind changes direction and it's
Too dark to see them.
Still, we stand against the rail,
Against the night,
Comforting each other.

Photo by Alan Vernon

7/22/12

Dream Shaping

I am told that dreams can be shaped by
Focused mental exercises at bedtime.
Concentrate on what you want to
Experience while sleeping,
Then it may come alive in your dreams.
Last night, head on pillow,
I focused on a
Secluded pristine white beach,
Just me and my lover
Under an umbrella,
A fresh piña colada every twenty minutes.
I pictured fine grains of sand and
The water, the sun, the smell of sunscreen.
But in the morning I had no memory of beaches,
Only a vague recollection of
Being with someone I know.
We dream several times a night,
Which means the beach may have been my
First dream,
Followed by nightmares of falling
Or being chased by a demon.
What's the use of forcing a dream
If it can't be savored?
Perhaps lucid dreaming is next,
In which I will know I am in a dream
When it's happening.
Or maybe a real trip
To a real beach
With my real lover.
But that would be too easy.

Photo by Johntex

7/21/12

Me, and Not Me

I might not be
Who I think I am.
I must keep this in mind
Because the man I see in the mirror
Lives in an
Alternate reality.
All these years I have been
Someone else,
Hair parted on the wrong side,
Clothes flipped,
Everything in reverse.
Me, and not me.
If it's true that we are what
People see,
If perception is reality,
Then I have lived a double life,
A false existence.
I need a mirror that shows what people see,
An internal double mirror device.
Then I will know what
Others observe,
An unfamiliar version of me
That I must get to know.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012