The Literary Review
Speedo
Monday, he awoke early;
amazed by the mirror,
he saw himself as wing-footed Mercury,
the first around the block
sipping coffee on the fly,
wiping a sleeve across his godly mouth.
He sensed Tuesday in his stride,
checked the clock for Wednesday,
dove into a deep minute’s doze
before waking in time to jump up
and dance around with Thursday.
Friday was just as fleeting, just as frantic.
At noon, he checked a timepiece,
and midnight whispered “easy.”
That was a swift week, he thought;
then his inner guide beckoned softly
moderate your pace, relax your time.
With the weekend everything changed:
A slow gin fizz imbibed with company,
relaxed conversational chatter,
Chopin in the air.
- Barry Wallenstein
Money and Sex
It’s your turn to bring in the dollars,
your turn to bring in the bread.
I refrain,
my back’s nearly broke;
besides, there’s been enough such carrying
in memory’s cup to overflow the brim.
So, think of my pockets as stitched
and me, former king of the cash machine,
out of town.
Last week it was your turn
to take out the smoke;
now it’s my turn to bury the dollars
found in the yard we stumbled on
while searching back then
for arable land to plow – we did.
Now it’s this week again
and your turn to carry the cash,
my turn to blow out the smoke.
If we keep going this way,
who won’t want to know us,
get close to us – marry us.
- Barry Wallenstein
Items for the Grave
This man, near to his end,
glimpses the mound up ahead
and cries out: “All this goes with me —
the clean suit they’ll dress the thing in
pockets empty of cash
the botched memory—
the failure to spell in any language
the chipped tooth just off center
the deformed arthritic fourth finger
on the left hand that won’t clench –
the fear of losing gold
and silver fillings too,
I take them with me
along with the fear of falling –
shovel fresh soil on the lot;
bury the scorn / the unreason
and the idea of dates in time –
shove them well under.
Entomb the vain rational.”
He said all that,
put his feet up on the table
and grinned like a clown.
- Barry Wallenstein
In the Middle of the Story
Perhaps a young man in his twenties
is walking toward a city,
having made love for the last time
with his first sweetheart
who whispered at the open door
“No more. I loved what was,
your tenderness, our trembles,
but that magic moment has passed.”
The writing hand,
on its way to expressing
an ephemeral truth,
is shaken by an earth tremor.
By chance no one was hurt,
but the pen skidded on the paper
and the truth,
so sincerely put forth, flew off.
- Barry Wallenstein
- Barry Wallenstein
