Country Home

up here the roads
are gravel
ditches deep

cars whip n'fishtale
around the curves
fire n'up mighty dust clouds

teenage boys
smash mailboxes
with teetering mighty swing
bat smashing

when you drive by
neighbours lift their eyes, wave
they know you
and your family secrets too

abandoned shacks
linger in the forest
great place to sneak smokes

kids ride their bikes
on ancient cow paths
with hockey card spokes

this is home

Monks, Truckers and Dealers

Gary once wrote about
zen monks and truck drivers
they are the same
up early
seize the day
on the road
sweeping brooms
as the sun rises

here the monks and truckers
could be met
by the drug dealers
they are never late
for school

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