"hitchhikes" poems
You're going on the highway,
Bringing a new 4-string bass guitar,
And a drum-set too for your sons.
Now you could be a family rock band,
You could churn your own Summer of '69,
The world will know you three now.
A really hot chick hitchhikes in your car,
You are tensed as your eyes meet.
There is unfathomable longing in hers,
And the bathykolpian woman's so inviting.
You can't play the good man at this age,
You decide to cheat your own wife now.
You stop the car quickly anyhow,
A quickee's on your mind & nothin' more.
She smiles at you and lunging towards her,
You smell the inviting scent of hers.
In middle of the kiss you start foreseeing,
You forsee a bright romantic future,
Suddenly her wellbeing's lost & she vomits.
Then you bring her to the hospital,
The gynaecologist congratulates you,
"Congrats! You're going to be a father!"
Taken aback, you say, "But I just met her!"
The girl who hitchhiked says, ***"He's ****** lying!"***
The doc summons the police and your test is done,
"Good news & bad news," the doc says,
"One, you're not her baby's father."
Hearing this you're relieved.
"Now the bad news, doc," you say.
The doc says, "You could have never have fathered any even if you intended to."
You are flabbergasted, "What the hell! Why?"
The doc pacifies, "Your load doesn't have any sperms,"
Seeing you shocked the doctor says,
***"It's a birth defect that happens rarely but yes it does..."
"...You may sue the girl for everything."***
The biggest shock in your life so far.
You just shake your head and turn around to go.
You're in the middle of a nightmare,
It couldn't be true!
***If not you then the 2 kids back home,
They belonged to whom!***
Now that's the biggest tension!
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 5:32 AM UTC
Thumb out, he hitchhikes from Prague
to the south of France, floats
the Marais Poitevin face-up
on a flatboard, sees
the last sunbeam slip behind the Louvre, sings
a song he calls "To California", snores
on one more of his friends' floors,
four euro to his name.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 11:36 PM UTC
An evening spent washing dishes
makes my hands thin and wrinkling
like tissue paper.
It’s ten o’clock.
Tonight each streetlight will
pop on one by one and
me and the guys who smoke out back
will watch owls drop from the trees
and sweep mice out of their holes.
Inside the pizza boils in the oven,
blistering up like pimples on elbows.
They can smell it from the doorstep
peeling the paint from the asphalt and
the huger gnaws and claws deep into the belly.
Onward the light crawls
trying to outshine the stars
and our Pizza Hut sign,
blazes a banner of glory to the highway.
I feel sick on gasoline and the cigarette breath
that clings to your apron.
No one can clean out the gutters
like you.
After the doors close
everyone hitchhikes
to the Greyhound bus stop
nobly trying to stay awake
over the thousand miles home.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 11:45 PM UTC
The water recedes again
Nonchalantly walking back to it's home
The smell remains in Old Town
The sewage scent hitchhikes the breeze
To make it's way up the street named for kings
The water will return
and I cannot afford to live here
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 7:29 AM UTC
There's just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.
And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.
No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.
It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basket maker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 7:56 AM UTC
The stun-gun you are arrested me at dawn
I stopped in my tracks at your radiant liveliness
Inviting me to play
Isn't it great when an unexpected chance encounter
Hitchhikes into your life?
A dream you didn't know you had comes true
We were both at the beach that overcast morn
Strangers gazing at the sea
Watching the white birds walk on the wet sand
You with that smile, playful and inviting
And that white sweater stolen from Marilyn Monroe's memory
I had no choice in this unplanned meet
Sometimes you just know
It was coffee and tea and welcome sympathy
As we were getting to know that maybe
Really maybe ... this could wind up a long show
Here we are now, back where we met
So many years have passed by
Still a good fit, we stop to sit
Share a kiss of fire
Remembering when, remembering how
A chance encounter led to a vow.
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 12:16 PM UTC