Submitted by Michael Mayhew on December 13, 2012
Driving east on the 10
I have made this drive
So many times; never
For practical reasons
This was the way to
A lifelong friend, tucked
In a pocket of Victorian
Theatricality, orange
Groves and elderly relatives
All gone now, the orange groves
To strip malls, the relatives
To the next world, my
Friend to Georgia
This was the hot-blooded
Road to first love, all
Tangled in confusion, lust,
And the sweet, aching
Drama of the young
I hear she is married and
Has a young child; I'm
Married too; good luck
To us both
This was the easy drive to
Friends with benefits -
Benefits shucked shortly
After they were enjoyed
Like an empty chrysalys
Leaving a lifelong love
But not a romance
This friend, too, has
Long since moved
I am driving east on the 10
To meet a seven year old child
Who might some day
Choose to be my daughter
It is not a practical thing
But like all such journeys
It is essential
Submitted by Michael Mayhew on December 9, 2012
To begin, the shot itself, that
Thing we endure so that
We shall not have to
Endure, hurts
Like hell
Next, the waiting, so that
This particularly useful
Poison shall have
Time to work
In Deep
After a few quick testing jabs
"Does this hurt?" the
Surgeon begins his
Cutting and
Rasping
I am a whorl of feelings:
Fascination, disgust,
And an intoxicated
Giddiness, that I
Can feel/not feel
The ongoing
Violation
And so it always goes
With buried
Pain
Submitted by Michael Mayhew on December 8, 2012
From a tiny car
Faces painted, baggy pants
Form an endless chain
Submitted by Michael Mayhew on December 7, 2012
Noiseless, a tree falls
The teacup drops to heaven
One hand applauding
Submitted by Michael Mayhew on December 5, 2012
There is a peacock
on Public Radio
who pronounces poem
“Poyme.”
“It’s Po-Em!” I pipe,
“You pretentious pedant!”
Yet periodically some
Plodding podunk
Pronounces it
“Pome.”
I have no problem with that.
Chalk it up to
Petty partisanship.
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