Our pond is empty,
our trees are cut
to clear.

You, right now,
are lost to me;

how I wish that
you were here.

Never was it spoken
true, how important
that you are.

But, without your
light to guide me,
I’d have never
traveled
so far.

The softness of
your voice,
the reassurance that
you gave;

left all who heard it
with a little more
life to save.

Now these woods
are hollow,
the pond
is all but dry.

The leaves begin
to scatter
as the wind
gusts sharply
by.

The owl asks
me who I’ll
miss,
but never
says
goodbye.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications

with hog jowl
and mole eye
he sentenced all
that I loved
to die.

without thought
of what we’d built,
who we were,
or why we did the
work;

he burned it
to the ground,
squinting in the
haze of his lack
of forethought or
the aftermath
wrought.

those that we serve
think that we know,
because we do.

we know.

yet,
as these changes,
these Trumperies,
these budget cuts
that slice and sear
the most vulnerable
among us…

these things cause
the unforgivable
“I don’t know.”
to escape our
collective lips.

but,
he knows.

with hog jowl,
mole eye,
and horse's ***
he sits upon
his liar’s throne
and
knows,
but won’t
say.


*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

Hello.

My name is Harper.

I am a mouse.

My momma hasn’t let me out of our nest very often yet.

It has only been a short time since I stopped taking
her milk.

And, even still, sometimes,
when I am frightened by
a bad dream,
or feeling very small and very alone,

I will again take some of her milk
and she will sing to me,
stroking the fur on my face and neck
while she sings.

I want to tell you about my home and my family.

My momma, my papa, my two sisters, and I
live in a neat and tidy little hole
behind the refrigerator that sits
in a warm little house.

The house belongs to five humans.

So far, the humans do not know
that we live with them.

(My papa says that they would not like it, if they knew.)

But, the humans have a cat.

And, the cat knows about us.

The cat’s name is Chauncey.

I hate him.

He scares me.

Papa doesn’t think so,
but our human family is nice.

There is a momma and a papa.
two loud boys; one older one who is
tall and thin.

The other boy is small,
but very loud.

He reminds me of the squirrels
that live in the trees near the
back of the house.

The small boy never walks,
he runs everywhere he goes.

Sometimes he jumps and jumps
for no reason at all.


The girl is in the middle.

She is usually very quiet.
I like her best.

The girl reads stories from books.
Sometimes she reads aloud,
when she does,
I sneak in to listen.

I like stories.

I don’t know much about the human momma
or
the human papa.

My papa tells me not to get too close to any of
the humans.
My papa tells me to
stay especially away from the adult humans;
to never let them see us.

I do my best to follow the rules,
to do as I am told,
but I like the human girl
very much.

The stories that she reads to herself
are full of adventures.

I do so very much like to hear her read
the adventure stories.

(I wish I could go on an adventure.)

But, I must be very, very careful.

Chauncey, the cat, likes adventure stories
too.

*


-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

My sons sit in
the faux leather chairs
next to the faux fireplace.

It is switched off
for the summer
that is coming.

The boys are switched on
for much the same reason.

I am watching them with lazy eyes.

(halfway)

The homeless man is here too.

He sits in the chair opposite
my youngest.

They are exchanging introductions.

No one is nervous.

(I am too near for that.)

__


When I am alone,
the homeless man
will ask me to buy him
a cup.

I usually do.

The 1st time this happened,
he pulled a fast-one.

This tattered man
asked for a triple-shot
espresso
with steamed milk,
setting me back
5 dollars.

Now, I’m the one who orders.

(A small, dark-roast,
with plenty of sugar
and milk.)

Last time,
he chuckled to himself
and happily vibrated
down the path.

Today, he is well-met,
but,
remains
decaffeinated.

*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

He makes them,
fired firm and
full of glory
in their emptiness.

I’ve never seen
one of Dooley’s pots
born,
but I’ve been
present during the kiln’s
gestation
of brick, wood, and fire
nurturing clay into a
more substantial being.

In his shop now,
we sit and fill these vessels
with condensation,
communication.

Conversation made from philosophy,
spiked with profanity.

We, The Potter and I,
strut like roosters,
bray like *****,
circle like tigers.

We know one another
and ourselves
all the better for this.

In the dark, cool
emptiness of a closed-up
Dooley Room,
our conversation’s condensation
evaporates.

We’ve gone our own ways for the night.

When next we meet,
the vessels will again
be empty.

I look forward to filling them.

*
-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

I wrote a book in this place.

I have filled notebook pages
hunched over this very table.

Virtually every time I’ve
come here to write,
I start with a ¢.97 chocolate
chip cookie and the ‘Sunday Special’,
an ¢.87 cup of dark.

Today, upon entry,
I stumble upon
Chocolate Shift Change.

I watch as she tosses the
first molasses disc into the
garbage can.

I ask:

“You’re just going to throw them away?”

She says:

“They’re old.”

“As am I.” I think, but don’t say.

Instead:

“I’ll buy them all right now.”

(She looks at me embarrassed just a bit,
but hurries to pull the rest of the expired cookies
out of the warmer.)

“We can’t sell you the old ones.”

“The fresh ones taste better.”

I doubt if I’d have known the difference.

(Expired confections slide from her grasp.)

Purchasing one, fresh,
I speak of lost profits
and typical first-world
wastefulness.

She nods knowingly,
but shitlessly,

(In that she couldn’t have
given a ****.)

I ask for a pack of smokes
as well,
meandering off in search of pulp
and fire.

My mind racing with the temporary
status
of
everything.

*  

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

This town gives small gifts
if one drives down the proper
avenues or alleys.

Joe Rubidoux couldn’t have fathomed
some of his village’s future
backward advances.

With a fondness, perhaps misguided,
the soul-forming streets, rife with potholes
full of memories and busted tie-rods are
sought.

This sour Saint speaks
as the miles
of moonlight slide by and play
their personal history slideshow
just below the visor.

It is thought to turn left;
heading down 4th,
to where the wire baskets
were filled with hand cut potatoes,
and the bellies of barnyard birds
were plated up for joyous devouring.

Sadly, those baskets are hung to rust,
and those worn tables and vinyl seat cushions
are home to things more wild than the eyes
of the boys that ate gizzards fresh
from hot grease,
sopping it all up with white bread.

The sky begins to purple,
like the clover in those abandoned lots
near to where the coal trains still chug
down the line.

Places that made a man
are passed,
remembered as though
part of someone else’s
life.

The yellow paint and brown shutters
of that chopped-up duplex bring a sigh
that is as heavy as the coal cars that clatter by.

The need for what was,
what had to be,
is discussed
and proven to be for
good and all.

Because the man
behind the wheel
lives inside this municipality
seeing not mediocrity,
but marvels that reside
unnoticed as the miles
and miles of moonlight
continue to slide by.

*
- JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications; 2017