Poetry: Selections from Wayne F. Burke

Soup

“Holy shit,” I remark, “a lot of

money for soup.” The

glasses-wearing shaven-

head guy behind the

cash register asks “you want

your money back?” “No,

I am just saying—seems a lot.”

The counter-woman arrives

with my soup. “Here—take

your money back,” the guy

says. “I will take the soup,”

I say. The guy hands me

my dollar bills, says “NO YOU

WON’T!” I wad the bills

and throw them at his face:

he stalks around the counter,

barks “GET OUT!”

Stands toe to toe--his egg-head

hovers above my nose. “Get out!

You old fuck!” “OLD? Eat shit!

Counter-Boy!” We exchange insults

concerning each other’s mother.

I call him a “cocksucker.” He follows me

to the door: “Get off my back!” I bark.

At the exit he gives me a shove and

I hit the deck: get up, incensed; run into

the door, scream “OUTSIDE!”

It has been a long time since I have felt

enraged. A voice escapes my throat that

is not mine: “GET THE FUCK OUT HERE!”

The guy says cops are on the way. So

what? I wait outside for him; he looks out,

retreats; lucky for him, and for me too,

I guess. I would have beat the prick or

else been beaten—did not matter which,

to me.

Candy

A fat girl standing in the

doorway of WALGREENS

“can you buy me something?

I have not eaten all day.”

She follows me inside.

Tells me her name, “Jen.”

“What’s yours?”

“Wayne.”

“Duane?”

“Yeah. Duane.”

In the candy aisle she plucks a bag of

Peanut Butter M & M’s off a shelf, on

sale 2 for 8 dollars.

“Can I have two?”

“Sure.”

She scoots down the center aisle

and around a corner:

returns with a pint of ice cream.

On the way to check-out I notice

she has three bags of candy and

I tell her put one back.

At check-out she has something

to say to everyone.

Asks a woman why she, the

woman, is buying so many

diapers. Compliments another

on her attire. At the register

she introduces me to the

cashier: “This is Duane, he is

helping me, I have not eaten

all day.” The cashier has polished

nails; she and Jen

have a lot to say to one another

about fingernails. Finally,

I get to pay. Outside the store

she calls “thank you” and

I grunt “OK,” not

begrudging her the food

but hoping she does not make

a habit of asking.

Air Force

Outside of the CNS Pharmacy

some guy walks up to me

says “Air Force, unit bla bla bla, Pensacola, Florida.”

He offers to shake but I am not buying

whatever this Gomer is selling.

“Locked my keys in my car,” he says, “can you

give me a lift to my hotel? I will pay you

twenty dollars.”

Skinny with a crew-cut, overly-intense stare behind

thick glasses.

“Sure, hop in.”

He sits. “Ever been in the military?”

“No. Shit on that.”

He jerks upright in his seat: “What is the matter? Don’t

you love your country?”

I side glance him as I increase speed.

“Sure I do. Just do not like anyone telling me

what to do.”

“I have been in eight years. Best eight years of my life.

Let me out here.”

I pull over and he troops out…

 

Never did give me the twenty.

Old

 

A log-jam at the EXIT

of the supermarket:

an elderly couple doddering

in the doorway…

A woman with cart load ahead of

me: “What are they doing?” she

demands. “Plow into them,” I say.

“No, I won’t.”

A woman behind says “they

do not give a shit about

anybody.”

The white-haired codger

tugs on his missus’ sleeve as

they move, slow as cold

molasses…

The woman ahead gives me

a “look,” eyes above her

black mask.

I feel like kicking her

in the ass. “They are old,” I say, but

neither woman, front or back

gives a shit

about that.

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