Dust Jacket
- At November 04, 2015
- By Bob Howe
- In Blog Posts, Poetry
0
old leather
jacket pockets inside and out
zippered, flapped, and
plain
larded with museum tags;
faded restaurant receipts
for meals enjoyed, and not;
a crushed penny from the zoo
hand-cranked, a tiger, if you look
closely;
a religious tract—
pocketed rather than pitched, to not offend the chestnut-haired girl who pressed it on you
—shares a silk-lined pocket
with a jiggle joint flyer
of another brunette whose affections
are purely transactional;
a ticket stub has worked itself
into the lining,
you don’t remember how the movie ended,
but the joke you shared over the popcorn;
looking for change
your fingers close
on a key card
from a hotel misadventure
so for a moment marvel
at your own capacity;
and oddly, a cat’s eye marble
rescued from the gutter,
chipped but still bright.
you wear your relationships close
against the chill of November
Moon House
- At May 07, 2015
- By Bob Howe
- In Blog Posts, Poetry
- 0
I’d forgotten the sky
existed,
until I saw the moon today;
two hundred and thirty eight thousand miles above
my earthbound fears.
I’ve driven cars that far,
if not any one car,
on city streets and highways, and once,
disastrously, on a logging road,
cut though an Oregon forest
like a coroner’s incision;
perfectly straight, perfectly functional, and perfectly ugly.
Only booted feet and gloved hands have
touched the moon, and
at that, it has driven men
quietly insane.
Reveille! Reveille! All hands heave out and trice up. Now reveille!
- At April 15, 2015
- By Bob Howe
- In Blog Posts, Poetry
- 0
