Richard Storm

May 30

Lines After Watching Project Runway

If haiku is the little black dress of poetry,

And the sonnet the ball gown,

then what I write is sportswear.

Going out

I’m spying outside my parents’ bedroom doorway

in my big boy pajamas, clutching Rupert the Bear.

Mom sits docked in the half-circle vanity, choosing earrings,

and says, “Zip me up, Dick.”  Dad comes over and does so,

concentrating on the hook and eye at the top like it’s algebra.

Their eyes meet in the mirror and they grin like kids,

and the sting of their abandonment this evening

is nothing compared with seeing that they are in love,

that I am left out not just tonight but always.

Dad goes back to fiddling with his tie. Mom inverts

the Shalimar bottle and presses the glass stopper

against her throat twice, there, and there.

Young love in December

Two youthful men zigzag along the noontime street.

They don't hold hands. They bump into each other,

then carom away, laughing like schoolchildren.

At the corner by the bodega they fall into a kiss.

Inside, an old woman buying catfood finds a forgotten fiver

in her sweater pocket. A flock of birds circles out from the roof:

a small girl  points to them and smiles.  The sun breaks through the clouds.

It’s that kind of kiss.

The two men break apart and run across

the street against the light, whooping.

Baby Steps

Gripping mom’s hand, the child travels gingerly down

the church steps.  In hard concentration the tip of his tongue

rests in the corner of his lips. Stairs are a newfound skill.

He is beautiful.  Even features, shining dark brown

skin.  Close-cropped tufted hair:  black moss.

Fifteen years hence, will his mother still need to warn him

about the police? Will we break his spirit, turn him hopeless?

Accomplishing the last step and reaching the ground,

he frees himself from mom and loses his serious face,

claps his hands together, gurgles, giggles, beams.

Mom bends down and kisses the top of his head

Calendar Magic

The broken world lurches on as the

last digit of the year's number changes.

“Glad that’s over,” we say.  “The next will

be better.”  We will say that again next year.

Though it really matters only to

accountants, critics with 10-best lists,

and the taxman, we like to believe

it is a clean beginning, a fresh start.

In truth our shattered bones have knit for

only a few more hours; they are not whole.

We have gained but one more day

of healing and decay.

Without a bang, or even a whimper

Time and potions have gradually eroded my appetites

and abilities till I’ve forgotten what they were.

My wanting waned at the same pace as my chance of having.

My surprise at the decline of the ordinary

diminished at the same rate as the decline.

Loved ones have drifted off for decades.

Like boats sailing slowly out to sea,

I couldn’t tell you when they disappeared.

Spared the shock of sudden loss,

I'm grateful for the dwindling.

Old Dog’s Dream

A long run, then a leap over the chicken-wire fence. He rolls in the dirt

between the lettuce rows, barking, jumping puppy-wild,

and the rabbits scatter like pigeons, dashing through their shallow tunnels

and into the woods. He sits back, licks a paw, lord of all, until

he hears his name and scampers for the driveway. “Hey, boy,” and

up into the passenger seat he goes, paws draped out the window, head craned

to the wind that crazes his fur, eyes shut tight. It is his bliss.

Then he wakes, curled in the oval bed, his paws cradling his ashy snout,

stiff legs pulled up beneath him. The television is on, so he limps

to the couch and his mistress helps him up into his place beside.

He settles in, rests his head across the woman’s thigh. His tail flicks once.

But his rheumy eyes shine, and in his mind he is chasing rabbits,

and the highway wind still whistles past.

John Trause