#napa
Hioheprenazine dreams
In sight of crispy creams
Computerized cognitive testing
I found her body arresting
The women wanted Jean Beliveau to buy them
Firm white peaches - so he fried them
Yonder girl bit in with a left arm left useless
All taxation claims hence were baseless
I recall pineapple scented gin was popular
Like the movies of Francis Ford Coppola
Raining over south Napa Valley
Into the arms of Kirstie Alley.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 5:31 PM UTC
Me, a teacher of poetry, the idea is insane.
Yet I’m here once a week at the nuthouse. Oops. Hospital.
A lunch conversation with a nurse.
“That old guy, Russell, he seems so gentle,” I say. “So normal.”
Russell writes about hummingbirds.
“It’s either here or prison,” the nurse says.
“Oh,” I say.
Actually I’m not allowed to ask about patients.
But the nurse, now she’s worked up.
“Russell had custody of his granddaughter,” the nurse says.
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“The mom died,” the nurse says, “the baby was six months.”
“Oh,” I say.
“To call him *** offender’ sounds too clinical,” the nurse says.
I say nothing.
“He must’ve bought Vaseline by the bucket,” the nurse says.
“Um…” I say.
“He ****** that baby every day,” the nurse says.
“Three hundred and sixty-four days a year,” the nurse says.
“Christmas, she got a holiday,” the nurse says.
“Oh,” I say, and I push my plate away.
“Sorry,” the nurse says, “I ruined your appetite.”
“Not your fault,” I say.
“I hate hummingbirds,” the nurse says. “I hate poetry.”
I say nothing.
“Can a poem be ugly?” the nurse asks.
I reach for a fresh napkin, slide it across the tabletop.
“If a poem could **** the nurse says, “I’d write one.”
From my pocket, I hand her a pen.
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 3:20 PM UTC