Poetry: Selections from Wayne F. Burke

Asshole

 

I am standing in line

at WALGREENS

when a guy, walking

in front of me toward the

exit points, says

“that register is open.”

He wears a ball cap and

has a front tooth missing.

“Did you hear me? Down there—

it is open.”

“Take a hike.”

“Excuse me? What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

“You do not need to be rude. 

I am only telling you…I work here.”

“Take a long hike.”

He stalks off, muttering.

I move to the register:

The clerk tells me that

the guy works in the place.

“I did not know that.”

She rings up my purchase

without another word

and I slink out of there, knowing

I have been an asshole

and should apologize, but

the guy is long gone

unless

waiting for me

around the corner.

Croutonville

Leaves skitter along the

pavement, sun peeks from

behind a cloud—

a quiet afternoon, nothing

out of line in the city—

a couple walk along the street,

arguing; the man begins to

scream; the woman reverses

direction; the man chases her;

she swings her pocketbook at him

like a bat; he picks up something

that fell from the pocketbook and

hits her in the face with it…

“You hit me!” she cries. “YOU HIT ME!”

“Why do you act like this?” he shouts

(but less stridently than previously).

“It is over!” she screams. “OVER! Help!

Someone call the cops!”

Leaves rush past my feet, an army of

them, running for

their lives…

A cop car shows up.

Then another cop.

The couple has already moved on, their

voices distant: meanwhile, leaves

scabber along the sidewalks of

Croutonville.

Dying

is not that big a deal

unless you are the

one in the box

or urn—

“poor----

gone so soon!

Looked good to me

last Saturday,

like not a care

in the world!”

Phat!

The first shovelful of

dirt on the coffin lid, and

you know

you are not getting back

up,

out of there,

not this time, no

not any time,

ever—

Splat!

No one will dig you up,

you know that:

never be topside

again—

time to turn your back

on succulent Spring, beautiful

autumn…

Get a move-on

Elsewhere.

Out Back

Knowing who in the neighborhood

to avoid

was key;

staying out of the grasp

of beefy moles wearing misshapen

hats and

with hairy paws

reaching to massage

shoulder or back

and who

given the chance

would drag you down

into the cellar and

dismember you part by part—

those dirty drooling misfits

of the heart

who lived under cars

or in sheds out back,

who kept playing pocket pool

as they talked,

whose gimlet eyes opened

like cracks;

ogres on street corners

whose faces shone in

attic windows

when the moon glowed.

Wayne F. Burke's poetry has been widely published online and in print. He is the author of eight published full-length poetry collections--most recently Black Summer, Spartan Press, 2021. He lives in Vermont (USA).