The Literary Review
Deconstruction
The neighbors across the street tear down
their house
no flood, no fire—
like a new hairdo,
they just want a change
a pink porta-potty, toxic flower, blooms across the street
a parade of men—
some workers, some passersby
use it while I eat my lunch
Mid-week, a truck comes and drains the standing
pee with a long-coiled hose
I try not to look while I have my noon tea
Then the war in Ukraine
I imagine a family huddled in the porta-potty,
a family living in the bones of my neighbor’s home
I hate my neighbors for their hubris
then I look to myself—
my house’s square feet and its empty rooms
It is easier to hate my neighbors
Trumpers on the Beach
They’re at it again—
white pick-ups in the sand
MAGA hats
MAGA flags
coiled rattlesnakes flags
Don’t tread on Trump flags
(sold on-line for $24.95)
and don’t forget the Confederate flag
Whaddaya 4 years old?
Ya gotta bring your toys to the beach?
I shout at these good ole boys
and these Southerners don’t cotton to New Yawkers
My sister, walking buddy, takes my hand
shushes me as we walk by
puts her head down, pretends
to look for shells and man-o-wars
I look at these men of war
blasting their country music
like Trump has gone country
First warm day and the Trumpers are back
all five feet of me gets in their faces
I look them in their mean eyes
What are they going to do to me
with their massive arms tattooed
in codes and secret symbols
their pink porky meat hooks curled into fists
I look them in their mean eyes
the tide comes up and for a moment we are stuck
our ankles suctioned into the wet quick sand
The ocean hits the pause button
we all take a breath
TO AN ASTEROID
You fall
near the Yucatan.
Most living things die,
even dinosaurs. Death
sets up an easel
to sketch forming fossils.
What You Do When You Find Out Your First Friend is a Trumper
You’ve known her since your parents moved to Levittown when you were both babies. GI Dads, cheap houses with free televisions. Holding hands in strollers, training bikes/bras, hair curlers. Smoking cigarettes every Saturday at the May’s Department Store trolling for bad boys with pompadours from distant towns— East Meadow, Baldwin, Bellmore.
As senior citizens, you find each other again on Facebook. Sweet coincidence. You live in the same town in Central Florida. You meet for an Early Bird Special, talk about the joys of Metamucil. You diagnose each other’s rashes then she drops the bomb—
She is a Trumper because she is against abortion. Did she forget that you held her hand during hers? That you gave her your summer job money—it was no big deal, just a Saturday morning of cramps, a heating pad afternoon. You freak and raise your voice, Hitler and history repeating itself. The other diners at the Lost Lagoon point at the crazy lady, take videos.
You throw money on the table and leave. Burning rubber, you feel like you’re having a heart attack, debate going to the ER, instead you choose Yoga with your favorite YouTube instructor; square breathing and CBD gummies. A shitload of wine, a dot of Xanax. Friendship fills your dreams.
A CHILL
in spring air this morning
brings me back to northern Wisconsin,
a geese family swimming past shore
and stopping by a pier, the sun
an eagle diving into the water,
hunting where the moon has gone,
ferns thin as lace doilies
my grandmother had on her card table,
and birch bark like scrolls
ancient Chinese poets continue
to write new poems on.