Sooner or Later

I intend to display courage 
sometime in the future.

I have thought about going fishing
for only the second time in my life, but haven’t.

When I find it hard to breathe, I massage my feet
and eat a bowl of raspberry sorbet.

My heart has not raced out of control for months
and my new shoes have stopped hurting my right big toe.

If the exterior world actually exists, anything can be possible
such as the sweet potatoes now sizzling on the frying pan.

I’m not sure I’ve ever really seen a frog. Maybe I have.
I’m just not certain. But I’ll always remember the hippos in the Bronx Zoo.

At night my bones fill up with the milk of paradise, and my honey
sits at the foot of the bed playing “The Morning Dew.”

My friend the undertaker now stops by every night for Irish coffee
and a chat. I have given him all my black ties and shoe laces.

That’s the way it is here, roses in one room, ants in another
and whatever is under the bed never makes a sound.

I Got Arrhythmia

I eat the potatoes and drink the wine.  
I take what I want until I’ve had my fill.   
And now I’m high and feeling fine.  

Last night we went out to dine.
I had meat loaf at the Copper Canyon Grill. 
I also ate potatoes and drank some wine.

I said, baby, I would love to make you mine. 
You said, just smoke a joint & pay the bill.   
And now I’m high and feeling fine.

I know arrhythmia is a bad sign. 
My poor heart jumps at every thrill 
such as mashed potatoes and cheap red wine.

The path forward is a steep decline. 
the human condition is designed to kill
us, which is why I’m high right now and feeling fine.

I guess sometime I’ll have to draw the line 
and learn to live without. But until 
then I’ll eat potatoes and drink that wine.
In fact, I’m high right now and feeling fine.

Curley’s Atlas Hotel

My brother got in his car and drove to New York.
He was searching for an old hotel where our mother
used to work. It’s not there anymore, I tell him.
It burned down. My brother never pays me any mind.

Our sons come over for a big breakfast, washed down
with ice water and coffee. They are so much more
advanced than we are. I tell them drive carefully.
I tell them to steer clear of ancient history.

My mother won’t budge. She stays put. She says
haven’t I everything I need right here? We say
Mom, where are you? Please tell us. Please. We are 
looking for your old hotel. The one that burned down.

My father never uses bad language. He says: you
dirty name. He says: shite. He says he loves cats,
but our mother doesn’t. He sleeps in a basement
full of cats. We lug him around on a stretcher.

Tomorrow, the year comes to an end. Mother,
father, sister, brother, sons, and daughters.
We will step forward in time. My sister promises
to teach me new ways to cook a potato.

My wife buys new sheets and a foot massager.
She has a secret plan to escape to San Francisco
and live in a cheap hotel on the water. I remain
at the seashore, floating on a wave of forgetfulness.

A Snail on the Way to Jerusalem

Our father lives on in the stillness
of the house at night in winter.

We hear him whispering behind
the door. He is telling his dad
jokes, like the one about how people 
are dying to get into the cemetery.

Maybe he is searching for his 
old tie clips. Maybe he wants his
Vega banjo back. He tells us love is
the most important thing in life.
Seriously, that’s what he tells
us. He has no use for money.

Our mother tells us scary stories
about the banshee. She is back
in the school auditorium, playing
bingo, smoking, carrying on.

She visits the house while we sleep.
We can tell she’s been here, though
we always miss her by a hair.

You’re going too slow, she says. 
You’re as slow as a snail 
on the way to Jerusalem. 

Holiday

Someone stole my favorite fork, then not long
after, my favorite spoon went missing. Then
my toothbrush disappeared and all the money
in my bank account vanished. There were no
more clothes hanging in the closet, and the
dresser drawers were empty. The shoes I kept
under the bed were nowhere to be found.
When I fell asleep last night I dreamt that
the acupuncturist reversed all the currents
inside my body and all night long I went
backwards. I drove in reverse, I backed into
rooms. When I woke up, I looked out the
window and watched my neighbors’ dogs, 
one after another, walk their owners along
my street. I looked to make sure none of them
pee’d on my newspaper. But then I realized 
the paper had never been delivered.  
In the kitchen, I looked everywhere, but my 
favorite cup was gone. Later, my wife left town, 
taking all the pillows and Christmas cookies. 

Great Sizzle  

Pour me another one, please.
I raked all the leaves in the rain and now I’m sore.

My primal fear involves living in a dark forest
made up of half-sentences and embryonic cabbages.

I was frolicking with my fairy godmother the other night
when we were suddenly seized by a chronic inflammation of unbelief.

The old postage stamps are licked. The eggs are beaten.
I look for redemption in comfort food and the coming of Santa.

A line was forming outside the darkened auditorium last night
just as the faithful began to chant, “The worst is yet to come!”

I focus on the flowers in the vase in the living room stinking up the house.
I press one for Armageddon, two for Transformation, three for Total Collapse.

There is no way to get your secret back from the secret-stealer.
The soul is mysterious they tell me. Put it in front of a camera and it explodes.  

And so on we go, watching the clean underwear dry, feeling the money grow
inside us, knowing sooner or later our source network will expose our files. 

 © Terence Winch, all rights reserved