Two on the Wall

The Torn Hat painting

By Tom Sully was one

Of two that hung

On a Federal Housing

Wall where we lived

Never made me want

To own such a lid

But I might have wished

I’d been as good

Looking or as brave

As that kid with the rosy

Cheeks that might have

Been badges of courage

From a bully skirmish

Chapeau snatched

And ripped in retrieval –

Years after my brother’s

Suicide I began to gaze

Back and find him in that

Memory frame but never

Coaxed smile or smirk

Light of the World-Child

Jesus was the companion

Skinny gold halo and God

Awful ragged and painful

Looking seaweed hair

A shoulder turned as if

Awaiting a polio shot

He died for our sins so

They say so ergo no need

For my brother to have

Taken his so seriously

Any critic art or otherwise

Would agree don’t you think

Store-Bought

The pipe-smoking professor

lobbed quickly a question or two

at the Shakespeare Intro class

before settling at his throne.

Not a hand signaling interest

or answer fecund or fallow,

he bolted in disgust leaving

a striking  tobacco trail

and I recalled the tall student

sitting in front  of me tall, Jesus

looking or at least

a disciple, long hair but no beard

a mere goatee—could be a character

from Midsummer, the comedy at hand—

who three days past picked apart

a drug angle namely Puck’s

narcotic plucking that had proven

a tad much for the professor

who broke in, citing a need

to inhale something more

potent than store-bought

in order to follow.

Wondering what wafted from clay

pipes at the Boar’s Head Inn,

perfuming the hair of wenches

I eyed the beauty second seat, first row

and imagined my face lost in her forest

of raven locks and at her request

deeply inhaling to separate

the store-bought

from whatever mystical elixir

she’d used in her morning shower.

The Libretto

Just a short stretch

Of wall between Bill Butler

Chase’s Wounded Poacher 

And Seymour Guy’s At the Opera 

The fugitive is all the worse

For the wear, gaunt, grimy

Bandage-headed yet

His exquisite mustache

Is oddly hale as if

Smoothed for the posing

Guy’s lovely young

Woman, sophisticated

No doubt and oh so fragile

A slim red band holds

Her taut hairdo in place

What’s occurring on stage

Prompts removal of her

Opera glasses or are those

Smartly gloved fingers

Lifting them to better peek

At a man of interest

As Madame Bovary did

From her Rouen box

How would she react to the poacher

His rifle aimed, they won’t take me

Alive written in caps all over his face

Give up the three strands of pearls

Give up the fur he’d kill to caress

Allow him to touch her thin lips

Small ears, perfect nose and skin

As fair as tissue under a pelt

Of a creature freshly peeled

A Beach and Boardwalk Poem

A couple of teens surf like novices

A kid in a sandbox scans them

But keeps his windblown focus

On a small bulldozer shifting sand

Does he long for the day he might fill

That vehicle seat, ditch the shovel and pail

A couple of loud F-15s fly over, another dream

Along with an aircraft carrier his mom points out

Near the jetty a trio of men and one woman fish

A boat rigged to tow hang gliders exits the inlet

A young woman in a bikini powering inline

Skates, pushes off with fingers entwined

Confidently behind her back

A yellow lab carrying an ultra-bright tennis ball

Pulls ahead and drops the toy

She squats to snag, passes it back

And speeds off six wheels singing

Her arms wagging like happy dog tails

Fame Found 

She was snatched off a branch

Of our family tree, a very distant

Cousin, mistress, of both Jim

Whistler and Gus Courbet

My grandparents never would

Have shared that tidbit

Irish Catholic reins you know

So kudos and gratitude

To the arborist who released

Joanna into our custody

How stately, simply gorgeous

Standing tall on a bearskin rug

The head intact and it’s smiling

In Jim’s Symphony in White 

Her red hair a wimple

The white of her dress and

The pale of the curtain behind

Equal at least two wedding gowns

In Gus’s, Jo La Belle Irlandaise she is

Fingering her locks, examining

Her face in a hand held looking glass

Maybe concerned her beauty is fading

How many women sharing boughs

On our ancestral timber appraise

Their reflections hoping to find

A tad of her handed down

Count the men who have ogled

A forest of barroom faces

AWOL

I’m homeless and walking

At midnight in Central Park

It is winter and I’m wearing

My first Navy Issue pea coat

Stolen when left on my rack

To use the head the day

I was leaving for a new ship

I bought a used one in Newport

But this is the original I’m sure of it

Don’t ask me why this certainty

I can’t place the rest of my clothing

I have a fountain pen in one pocket

And half a lemon poppy seed

Muffin in the other

That I pick at

There are no flowers

In this dream no opium

But seeds get stuck

In my teeth that I move

To my tongue with my pen

Tip then swallow

And taste punctuation

Ending sentences

Confining me

To a brig