Ditch Box

on a country curve
sniffed by my dog
in the ditch
snow slips down the edges
reveals
a box
stained and beaten

lid rises
sides fall apart
broken and soaked
inside...comics
wrapped tight n'taped
in plastic
safe from the damp

Spring

puck sinks slow and steady

smoothly down through the ice

in a circle of black heat

Under My Gloves

lights dim
zamboni doors shut
scoreboard reset
dressing room silence
heads bowed
salt sweat drips
stings
under my gloves

What's wrong with you?

What's wrong with you?

it is blood under the skin
dripping down
blackened marks
from straps and pads
slash to the back of the knee
knuckle thumps
sinking down under the skin

on the card

everyday
as i step through graffiti
and broken glass
i'm looking to the next fight
the next match
canvass, holds, and bumps
i gird my loins like Job
smashed hip like Jacob
limping
i'm a wrestler
behind the curtains
trying to get
on the card

Porch Dreams

Fading from the din
of city cars, truck routes
and suburban garbage can lids.
Drunken yelling from the teens
across the park…fading.

Crickets create the white noise,
joins creak of the guitar case hinges
dust free flattop glows
by the porch light.

Songs – nay - the “set list”
Thirty Years of Farming
Carmelita
Time to Get a Gun

Laughter, and cheers and more join in.
Three train songs echo over the field
across the creek, slips through the trees.
miles from the rows of porchless houses.

Close the Fucking Door

path is beaten
icy, to the shed
open the door
hit by a wave of heat
"close the fucking door"
is my greeting
guitars ring
fists bang
beat on the flat top
Pat is drumming hard
snare snapping
high hat crashes
to the floor
howl laughing
sweat flies
beers spills
smoke flows out
the cracks
heat pumps, logs
added to the stove
five voices sing
a massed chorus of
"Fifty Mission Cap"
"close the fucking door"
is yelled again
as I snag the coldest beer
on the planet
from the snow