About Jack

Squeaking brakes, Bus 37 drops Jack home.
He races inside to pour out news from third grade
around bites of PB&J and a mug of milk.

Sherry threw up on her reader!
Alex brought some cool,
long worms to school.
Miss Cook hugged me twice.
His nubbin nose crinkles.

I sit at the table with him,
wishing I could bottle this moment;
his grape-stained face, the light of the sky
in his eyes, the impassioned voice
proclaiming events that rival the evening news.

I would give the bottle to Jack’s mom
who hurries in from a twelve-hour day at the diner,
flings her first words, like flaming arrows, at him.

Turn that damn thing down!

Jack never looks up, engrossed in Power Rangers,
laser noises, death battles on TV.

**

How to Bridle an Uncooperative Horse

A little spooky, she throws her head up
out of reach, snorts in denial. With your left hand,
grab her lower jaw. Poke your thumb into her mouth
behind her teeth, clamp down on her rigid gum.
Feel her thick tongue working to remove you.
Cup her floppy chin in your hand. Her whiskers stick
your palm like pin pricks. Pull down. She lowers her head.
Say something soft and kind. Take the bridle in your right hand,
bump the cold hard bit against her lips. They open.
Slip the bit inside. Remove your fingers.
Slip the headstall over her pointy ears. Softly scratch
behind them. Then kiss her velvety nose that smells
like molasses in corn. Slip an apple or a carrot
from your pocket and reward her for being so good.

**

The Long Sleep

Beside his grave, old soldiers
fold the flag. That haunting bugle
tune lays him to rest.

They say he was a craftsman;
built furniture by hand, rivaled scholars
with his logic, understanding,
though he never finished high school.
.
He entertained his grandkids
by making funny faces, loved
his family, his church, and
a good joke.

I never even met this man,
so why the tears behind my lids?
I cry not for the dead man in his coffin.

But for my own beloveds who have gone.
Mine who would have treasured one more day.

**

Madness

Dogs rip meat from bones,
tearing sinew, fat,
splattering blood
that stains their coats
and dribbles from their jaws.

I can’t grasp the reason.
Maybe anger drives us all.
Maybe we don’t really exist
except in fury that
defines our deepest soul.