Christmas 1960
I am 5
waiting for Santa
pretending to sleep
in my bed in the hall
I can hear mom & dad
talking & occasionally laughing
in the kitchen
they have made an apple pie
for Santa.
I fall asleep
& later stumble into the toilet
I go to hug mom
& in incredible disbelief,
watch as dad
spoons smilingly into his face
Santa’s pie.
Trailer Park Song 1991
the burner kids who milled around
outside the high school theater
would get dropped off
at the trailer park
after detention every wed
after the sun had already gone down
when only the glowing cherries
from their cigarettes
seemed to remember
the way home
they didn’t care
that the future
was moving past them
faster than anyone even knew
or if the sun ever came up again
or bothered to wipe
the sleep out of its eyes
as long as the grateful dead
was playing somewhere
on the radio
for all eternity
nobody was depending on them
for world peace
or to wake up with roosters
to deliver the morning news
they would get around to cutting the grass
after it had grown as unrecognizable
as the crashing sounds of punk
coming from their parents
dying mowers
their hearts were always
up on blocks
surrounded by ragweed
swooning with cattails
in overgrown empty lots.
Trailer Park Song 1980
for lesley freeman
your life was a testament
to the punishment
of long pennsylvania winters
cracked red skin
like a lobster
in a moment
of downward mobility
in welfare glasses
with lens that got thicker every year
tomato soup in bulk
with a husband
who seemed
to be sick
for decades
& a car that wouldn’t ever turn over
buried in mud up to its axles
just there to crush spring flowers
before they ever got to bloom
working the grocery store deli counter
with stringy hair & mismatched socks
complaining about having to be
on your feet all day
before going home
to stand outside
talking to the neighbors
lighting one cigarette off of another
until the sun went down
telling my mother all of the juicy gossip
going on from one end
of the street
to the next
it took courage to live like that
& keep laughing
at the ends of the earth
while feeling like a tarnished star
writing the biography of the poor
on your lips
when you didn’t even feel
like looking up
at the night sky.
Ms. Appalachian Frankenstein 1977
your lips
are an autumn field
ripe with fire
a mother’s heaving breast
making the same sound as an owl
on a cracking branch
a river of mud & youthful concerns
set aside
a farrah fawcett poster
inside a biker’s lonely garage
used as a coaster for a warm beer
a dead brother
who once kissed you
on the head
who sang songs
about dirt roads
on lost kentucky highways
to get you
to close
your eyes.
On the Way to the Mailbox
3 deers run across a field
making peace with the dead
before it rains.
John Dorsey lived for several years in Toledo, Ohio. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Teaching the Dead to Sing: The Outlaw's Prayer (Rose of Sharon Press, 2006), Sodomy is a City in New Jersey (American Mettle Books, 2010), Tombstone Factory, (Epic Rites Press, 2013), Appalachian Frankenstein (GTK Press, 2015) Being the Fire (Tangerine Press, 2016) and Shoot the Messenger (Red Flag Poetry, 2017),Your Daughter's Country (Blue Horse Press, 2019), Which Way to the River: Selected Poems 2016-2020 (OAC Books, 2020), Afterlife Karaoke (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2021) and Sundown at the Redneck Carnival, (Spartan Press, 2022). His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and the Stanley Hanks Memorial Poetry Prize. He was the winner of the 2019 Terri Award given out at the Poetry Rendezvous. He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.
