Edmonston Cathedral He had an unobstructed view from his hotel window. There was a funeral in progress he’d decided to avoid. The opera tickets would go to waste now. When he poked his head cautiously into the sunshine his overcooked nettle-filled brain convinced him he could hear terrifying liturgical tunes in the distance reorchestrated by the river wind for tin whistles and saxophones.
There were complimentary post cards in the fake leather binder in the desk, none appropriate for that taciturn kid in the secretarial pool.
Senior Executive
The day skidded sideways. He decided to retrieve a few stale cigs from that rolled oats tin where he used to store his aggies. The first drag flashed him back to Man Against Crime, Ralph Bellamy gliding inexorably past swinging doors made of Camel packs.
Old private eyes always smoked, harmless habit, like whiskey shots or deceitful dead-on blondes armed only with legs and a lethal dose of lipstick. He slapped on another nicotine patch and inhaled deeply. He saw no reason now to head out the window.
Dr. Love Dead
What shall we do? Stand here forever Helpless by the coffin inhaling the bloom-blast Of the nearby hedge of red roses? Pilfer A few more samples from his bulging trousers As we bend over to plant a farewell smooch On his chilly cheek? Gone the climactic house calls, The burbling bedside manner, the litany of symptoms, The lullaby of pills, the rumbling rapacious basso profundo.
Why be snide, for Christ’s sake? Dr. Love has died, His prescription pad Tucked into his breast pocket Protecting his heart From the stake.
Bereaved
he made his way through the parlor like a pinball ricocheted careened among the mourners dispensed obligatory grunts and handshakes muttered a prayer his palms pressed against the coffin backed into a few dreaded aunts
he tried to avoid women at wakes keening breasts screeching thighs wet bloody whimpering lips
“Cigarette,” he implored lumbering past countless uncles who headed toward the deceased like a column of starving ants
he inhaled the darkness in the parking lot between the funeral home and Dunkin’ Donuts he could walk these streets blind and did he was in time for last call at the Happy Swallow threw back his drink and waited for the dead to whisper his name
I took notes
When I parked in the driveway that August night you were practicing your flute in the attic Mozart or the Irish Washerwoman or Over the Hills and a Great Way Off I’ll never remember but it was all I could hear in the furtive air that and my engine idling and my loafers grumbling on the gravel my clothes would be tumbling at Landry’s Laundromat for at least an hour you weren’t expecting me you weren’t expecting anyone you were sweating probably in those ratty yellow shorts and your Jersey City t-shirt the kitchen door was locked I could smell brownies while you played Blue Moon
If you take that train
you will die hurtling across an abandoned trestle in the disdainful company of raspy boxcar ghosts.
Armed schoolchildren will strew your mementoes on the dusk-damned rails and hurl your remains into an unpronounceable river. Light rain will be your requiem.
The cards you mailed at the depot will be postmarked tomorrow.
Priceless
After enjoying a clove cigarette in her junkyard parlor surrounded by her magazines and bulk-rate detritus Priscilla didn’t feel the least bit like Miss Havisham—no rotting food anywhere, not even a cupcake [and she was extremely fond of cupcakes] though she slyly smiled to herself in memory of Grandma Sophie’s batches of rubber bands and Band-Aid tins and that ball of aluminum foil in the garage on Bergenline Avenue.
But she wasn’t responding to the Depression. Or to depression. Perhaps it was genetic. She simply saved stuff. No harm. None. None whatsoever. She would always be alone and the house was plenty big. She hugged her totebag full of rainbow tissue and price tags and fell asleep once more in her old state college rocker. E. Michael Desilets
E. Michael Desilets' work has appeared in numerous publications including The Boston Herald, California Quarterly, TheJournal of New Jersey Poets, and The Rambler. He twice won the John M. Corcoran Poetry Prize. He now lives in California