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Friday, March 11, 2016


Out by Ari Zeiger

Dad lived about a mile away,

and weekends were our time with him.
Mom would drop us off after cereal and Saturday-morning cartoons,
then reappear sometime before supper on Sunday.

It was so many decades ago and I couldn't tell you the last time I was back,
though I do remember the hat shop just up the block
and the corner bookstore across the street
and that tiny, cramped market with the TV behind the counter
set high on a cluttered shelf
— how the Tyson fight was on when I walked in,
how I paid for my soda and sipped at it slowly,
slowly backing my way toward the exit,
then pausing by the door, drawing myself in,
making myself small,
squinting through the plexiglass at the brawl in the distance,
praying to see the punch the world had tuned in for,
praying to witness the blow before the owner took notice and counted me out.

Wednesday, March 2, 2016

The Red Bird

The red bird outside this window
lands long enough for me to see a fin of feathers on its head.

Walking Toward the Bayou

Walking toward the bayou for an evening jog,
still blocks a way, when a man,
                                not too far ahead,
bounds off his porch,
clearing all five steps,
and scrambles toward the street,
hurling a green backpack out before him,
toward the back of the white Chevy,
as he rounds to the driver's door, yanks it open,
and motors away, vanishing amid the dark oaks.

Monday, February 29, 2016

Two Poems


What a great word:


Directing traffic
is not a job
in which people tend
to smile.