Featuring Ron Lucas

ELMER’S GLUE

I am no delicate flower.

I am a shattered, fine goblet.

Pieced back together with

Children’s paste.

The slightest touch.

The lightest breath.

And I may collapse into

An irreparable heap

Of tiny shards,

Too small,

Too sharp,

And dangerous

To ever

Even be

Picked up

Again.

Please,

Gently pad to the

Open window,

And door,

And close them softly

With your bleeding

fingers

on your way

out.

INFLUENZA AND… SOMETHING MUCH WORSE…

Have been ill of late,

Quite ill.

Wake each day with

A gasp,

Feverish, shivering,

And one

Word

Escaping dry, cracked lips.

I laugh.

It’s funny.

Apparently, I shall die

One day

With your

Name

Upon my tongue.

And I have not

Seen your

Face

Or

Heard your

Voice

For

Fourteen years.

… AND NOT CRONSHAW’S PERSIAN…

In the hall,

Outside my door,

“Big Steve” begs

For his life

At gun point.

“Shoot this mother—

Fucker, babe!”

Screams the man

Beating him, to

His lady,

Over and over.

“No, please, don’t!

Please don’t!”

Sobs Big Steve to

The man and

The lady,

Over and over.

In my place,

Inside my locked door,

I had no phone.

I could not help or

Even dare to make

A sound.

It was all over

In five minutes;

An eternity.

It was all over

A five dollar

Rug.

ANGEL OF MUNCHAUSENS

Where are you tonight?

No one knows.

As usual.

Who are you tonight?

I no longer know

Your name.

Your birthday is in a

Week.

I think.

We were young when

We met.

You were younger

Than I.

Are you in a hospital

Somewhere?

Are you comforted by

The sounds?

The sterile smell?

The needles

Piercing?

Does it take you

Home?

Wherever that

Was?

Our daughters are

Doing well.

Our granddaughter

Is cute,

Sweet, and smart.

I am doing

Okay.

Not that you should

Care.

My shrink asked

After you

Today.

Thought you might

Like that.

Well, I hope you enjoy

Your stay.

Get well soon.

Happy birthday.

I think.