A Story Problem

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One poet drives his older model Volvo East.
Another poet drives his older model Volvo West.
As they pass, both wave to each other.
Which poet will be first to reach home
and write a poem about this?
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We're in the Middle of a Slight Break...

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I'm taking a few days off until I start posting again...perhaps by this weekend. I like posting here. I like that people, however few of you, are reading. I'll keep writing. Stay tuned.
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Poem #29: Feeling the Lawnmoer

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On the first of May I mowed my grass
(and dandilions, too)
but much vibration came upon
the handle I clung to.

I then unplugged ('cuz it's electric)
to check it underneath;
I found it clogged with wet mown grass
from my suburban heath.

I took a tool and scraped it out
as well as dry bits, too;
and it began to mow again
as when mowers start out new.

The lesson here, dear reader, is this:
Sense the mower over time.
And please forgive the poet here
who struggles with May's rhyme.
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Poem #28: Moon Over Garage

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There's a full moon over the garage.
Happens this time of year.
Four months ago it was Orion, the lout,
with his stinking winter pelt
and bloody club.
Only too happy to see him fade in the West
and leave the sky open
for this fume-y disk, which tonight shows
either the face of an old man
or a rabbit running a treadmill,
depending on your eye or culture.
I'm happy to see either,
welcome for the change of face again,
happy to have this morose orb back
(the moon is only happy when you rhyme her with June).
You can stay over my garage all night, I tell her;
tho your heart is fickle, and will
eventually invite
Orion back--
that's months away.
I'll wait until you next appear full
before I bring out the basil seeds
to plant them in your light,
cursing at each one as the Roman did*.
Tonight, I'll just enjoy
your bare illumination
through my open window.

[Note: The ancient Romans were said to plant basil seeds only at night during a full moon, and curse at each seed as they planted them in order to ensure a large harvest.)
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Poem #27: Don't Tell My Neighbors

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An email this morning from the neighborhood association;
sixteen unlocked cars robbed last night.
Two cops tracked down one of the kids.
One accomplice remains at large.
None of the loot has been found.
I put on some clothes and checked my car.
No theft, but I check the premises;
I've found empty purses stuffed in my bushes before,
vacant wallets, scattered small change,
even a Carhartt jacket, almost new,
crammed behind the fence.
I kept the jacket.
Don't tell my neighbors.
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Poem #26: Going Somewhere Else

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What are you doing up there,
she asks, why aren't you down here?
Oh, I'm trying to write, I say.
But I don't mention
sitting by the open window,
listening for the freight train,
going somewhere else.
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Poem #25: Zack at the Door

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Zack drops by every day this week.
He doesn't mention it,
but a 14-year-old dropping by, asking for yard work
on a weekday morning in April
must have been suspended from school. Again.
Again I tell him to come back on the weekend,
I'm busy, I have no money, and
no I don't have any cigs
(I lie).
But he's cool with that.
He's a scrawny, snaggle-toothed punk,
and by punk I mean
he's into skateboards and the Ramones;
says he lives with his dad and grandpa.
they used to live in the neighborhood,
but were evicted from their rental
two weeks ago, and are now holed up
in some flea-bag motel on the west side of town.
He walks the four miles to my neighborhood
because there's more homeowners, like me,
for whom he's done work the past year,
and every now and then he can still be handed
a rake or shovel or broom or mower
to do some yard work for a couple of hours.
He grins his set of cartoon teeth
and says "Hey, no problem, I'll be back!"
And he will, and he'll work, too.
Even this anarchist-punk junior high dropout
embraces a work ethic I admire.
It's me that's a slacker,
wanting to get another hour of sleep in this weekend
while I hear him rake the front garden.
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