Please Use Side Door

Four broken-down recliners
in various stages of fatigue,
slumped against the house front,
elbow to elbow across the concrete stoop:

One’s a peeling brown vinyl,
next, a corduroy in dusty rose.
There’s a denim sag and
a matted hunter green plush,
oversized ashtray balanced
on one arm. A scrap of paper
taped to the storm door
directs visitors around back.

Four recliners, all in a row,
sun, rain or snow—
a breeding ground
for adjectives and other vermin.

**

Pond At Nazareth, Kentucky

Like so many before me
I am a shadow cast
from the retaining wall, nothing more.
They, the pond residents,
look to me for food, not words.
Sustenance—stale bread,
cereal—not inspiration.

Standing at the chain link pulpit
I survey the multitudes,
hundreds of fingerlings
fanning out across the surface,
flashes of silver, purple, blue,
a swirling mosaic.

Larger fish, orange
with gray and white speckles,
roll up from the murky deep.
Black-tailed polliwogs
zig-zag from mossy cover.
A turtle treads water,
pointing his nose
like an old deacon
waiting in the back pew.

I clear my throat, lift my arms
over the teeming water.
I may never have
a more captive congregation.