She floats on a worn inner tube,
reeking of rubber
Buoyed by what passes for water,
South Side city lake
dredged for landfill
reefs of discarded tires.
The reason is unknown
why she jumped into the water
especially as she had
no ability to swim.
The dirty lake grasped her
She relaxed in the embrace
Strong arms broke the hold
rescued her from fate
Water still seduces,
though she avoids a relationship,
Alert to the fear
of another near drowning.
Copyright 2018
You are prickly, Frieda Rose.
A fiery, petulant, pugnacious, pouty soul.
Compliments have to be
massaged carefully
Like ointment
onto your fragile ego
Sweet nothings must be
delivered in drops
Like antibiotics
into sensitive ears
Caresses must be gingerly layered
like surgical gauze
over damaged emotion.
For you are prickly, Frieda Rose,
A barbed cactus
among soft-petaled dahlias.
Copyright 2018
She always had a fascination with Eve,
Master Gardener of Eden.
How could she not
be enamored of a self-assured rib?
Who converses with snakes
Snacks on forbidden fruit
Struts her naked stuff
In a dance of free will with God.
Copyright 2018
She lists important things on a portable Underwood
(Species of freshwater fish
All known shades of blue)
Using a non-serif font on ordinary bond paper
(Antonyms for apathy,
Feeding habits of manatees)
Bakes these lists into chocolate fortune cookies
(Average temperature in Tahiti,
Lyrics to “Free Man In Paris”
Packs them in brown paper bags labeled “Most Important Stuff”
(Names of all the moons of Neptune,
Every Inuit word for “ice”)
Leaves them on a bench, in the park by the river
(Best sake to drink in the moonlight,
How to apologize sincerely in Greek)
For the brave and the homeless
Who always need to know.
Copyright 2018
She hooks her conscience
On the ring of her key chain
The laminated “Get Out Of Jail” card
Handles the rest.
She just needs to know
Whenever she enters, exits,
Comes, goes,
She is answerable to no one
Not even herself.
Copyright 2018
His name is Hank, God’s Secret Service,
Protector of the pathetically unblessed
The tragically sad
Huge seraphim wings tucked awkwardly away
Inside a black baggy bowling shirt
Embroidered with a cross
He smells like jalapenos
Has a voice like two a.m.
Frieda always leaves the next bar stool empty
A glass of Dewars and holy water
Ready to unwind
Copyright 2018
She lives on a cement island, surrounded by freight trains
Instead of the sea.
Writes requests for salvation on the back
Of her imagination
Stuffs them inside empty beer bottles
Tossed into open box cars
All while secretly knowing
The only rescue she might find
Is a trip in the ambulance
Headed back to dry land.
Copyright 2018
