Agnus

Ribbon flaps on
a mildew sign
beneath the swamp oak
at the Audubon Nursing Home.
The poster blew
into the wet grass.
The magic marker bleeds,
“Happy 100 Agnus.”
Propped by
a pillow,
she waits and waits.
Only a letter from
the President has come.

**

The River Runs By

Catfish line
strung with
care.
Swung one way
then the other
rippling the brown
canal.
Old hands
grab and pull,
snatch and toss
the whiskered fish
into the boat,
where it lays tangled,
panting,
gills bubbling,
heart racing,
tail pounding,
fins flapping,
eyes staring,
stunned.

A big one
the fisherman’s eyes
crease.
The old catfish,
belly bloated,
body shudders,
then slacks,
takes a breath
for life,
for death.
The fisherman goes cold
and tosses the fish
into the bucket.
It’s getting late,
it’s almost time.

**

Sinking Sweet Irene

A hound dog stirs in the steamy air
and plank walks over swamp gas grass
to greet sweet blonde Irene.
A co cola in hand, large tan legs,
she bends and a
dragon fly, wings like cellophane, zips
and she is falling,
falling into the Georgia goo.
Sinking sweet Irene,
ambition and dreams
struggles in the muck.
Welcome home.

**

Whistles

A humid night
on a queen size bed.
They listen to the Gulf Coast rail.
She,
tears in her eyes,
thinks of leaving.
He,
biting the side of his mouth,
wishes it were over.
So that’s it, she asks.
No, no, he thinks.
The train whistles.
Yeah, he says.
The train whistles again.