Splashdown

He pulls it out

of my mouth

the drill 

for long enough

that I can see the score:

physics versus two humans

left in space

for 286 days.

Parachutes deployed

their pod's engulfed in flames

while my dentist

earns his pay

my eyes glued to the screen

that normally shows

the weather, who's died

and what should anger

those of us still living.

He offers me a mirror

that I decline

pointing to the device

he's had installed 

for my distraction

in a ceiling corner

of his office.

We watch well after

my allotted time

divers in green helmets

boarding that capsule

that possible coffin

bobbing in the sea

as dolphins circle to greet it.

The astronauts' muscles

having atrophied

they can't open

the vessel's escape hatch

relying on their rescuers

to cue the media frenzy.

I pity their return.

What a lousy planet

they've entered again:

a trauma bond

misnomered

with sentimental value.

Currently reading:

"History of Bannerman's Island Arsenal, No. 30-B" by Thom Johnson.

Sing for Your Supper

We're all born

the same way

fresh and blank

with factory settings.

It's what we do over decades

and how we age that defines us:

which joints and topics ache;

which remedial vices

and coping mechanisms

help temporarily;

what are the side effects

of those?

I can't tell you when 

rain's en route

but I'm mindful

of how I lift and bend at work

and I know when to kneel

on a piece of foam insulation

instead of concrete.

My hair's thinning, 

my beard's getting lighter

and the left half of my chest

has started to go gray

over my heart

so when I'm done 

reiterating phrases

from those who taught me 

as an apprentice

I ask these young men

under my charge--

"Do you love her?"

I cite the warnings

of coffee break tales

robbed pensions

and child support

but remind them that time's

our most precious commodity.

"Don't wait past 28."

They probably hit their vapes

and forget what I've said

once those tall boys 

take hold at night

but I sleep better

having known I've tried

staring down an ashtray

that's more full

than the latest bottle.

It's a lonely life

but someone's got

to laugh at it.

Unlucky Boxers

We all had that friend

with a BB in his face--

the answer man

with a lion's share

of walking pneumonia.

Shorthand in muscle memory

as smooth as silk

they rent him out for parties

every now and then.

Like unattended candles

we sing it with conviction.

There's no abacus present

at campfire tales.

Defrocked means

not photogenic.

The synopsis

is bleak at best

a refresher course 

in the way you taste:

dead gardens

blood gutters

set back to factory settings

fed too well

to survive the apocalypse

barring acts of god

and men with axes.

Currently reading:

"Catalogue of Bannerman's Island Arsenal, No. 30-A" by Thom Johnson.