Birth of Pong Read online

  And melts into a bath

  Luke warm

  I do not go up there often; I prefer

  To walk along the

  Walls, sometimes letting my fingertips glide across

  They used to look for a door

  Not now

  That search had been called off

  Years ago

  So I walk

  Tiara rusted, around

  The large, circular room

  Feeling the dents in the glassy walls

  And the points of the shards of light

  THE COAT

  Her ugly winter coat

  Did keep out the cold

  And kept her happy on her walks

  Through the park

  Every morning, 6:00 AM

  But sometimes she yearned

  For the feel of new

  Fabric. Any fabric

  Cotton wool cashmere silk felt fleece or a new

  Color. Any color

  Red blue violet green yellow orange gray black

  She often caught herself

  Looking into store windows

  At all the many, many different coats, cheap, expensive

  And in between

  Just craving something new

  Then the wind would blow

  She’d hold her coat tighter

  Her wish withering, after all

  Her ugly winter coat

  Did keep out the cold

  And kept her happy on her walks

  Through the park

  Every morning, 6:00 AM

  A FEW DEGREES

  Take a look at this man

  On interstate sixty-five

  The left, pure dead grassland

  The right, his pretty little wife

  Blinks his eyes, rubs his face

  And then sees the dull sign

  Exit for some new gray place

  Half a mile down the line

  Of course he does nothing

  Just hurtles right on by

  Go somewhere, do everything

  In half a blink of an eye

  In him the words burn

  Why can’t I go there?

  All I needed was a tiny turn

  All I need to go anywhere

  It’s just so simple, really

  A few degrees, a slight jerk

  Just need a wheel, actually

  And an engine that works

  A little twist of the wrist

  And off you damn well go

  A little flex of the wrist

  No looking back, just go

  A few miles later, he’s lost

  Everything to the road

  His mind’s paying the cost

  It’s begun to overload

  A semi creeps up

  Hail the king of the hill!

  It’s warming itself up

  For the thrill of the kill

  Monster thing could take

  Him nicely off the track

  Run him over, don’t hit the brake

  Gas and fire, good-bye Jack

  Of course nothing happens

  The truck goes right one by

  Didn’t bother to kill him

  And it makes him wonder why

  It’s just so simple, really

  A few degrees, a slight jerk

  He had his wheel, really

  With an engine that worked

  A little twist of the wrist

  And off you damn well go

  A little flex of the wrist

  No looking back, just go

  Now he turns on the headlights

  And goes down some dreary street

  Turning left, turning right

  His sweetheart fast asleep

  Some people walk beside him

  He closes his weary eyes

  No screams, silent mayhem

  No fright, just surprise

  He said he fell asleep

  All those hours took their toll

  Even he believed that, but deep

  Deep down, he really does know

  That it was he, not fatigue

  Which on that strange night

  Made good that bloody need

  That’ll haunt him all his life

  It was just so simple, truly

  A few degrees, a slight jerk

  He had his wheel, unfortunately

  And an engine that worked

  A little twist of the mind

  And off three people went

  A dab of curiosity and you’ll find

  That it was all well spent

  THANKSGIVING

  The Troublemakers would not look at the turkey,

  Huddled as they were at the end of the table.

  I knew the look in Grandpa’s eyes

  As he walked into the dining room,

  Carrying the

  Carving knife and fork.

  I got up, and he jerked his head towards their end.

  “Here,” he whispered, “Give the knife to them,

  For sadness grows in their hearts.

  Withering, they are, and

  Whether their fall is better

  Or worse than ours

  They will surely die soon, even if we can’t see it.”

  It was my turn. I looked at them

  And thought, Surely

  They are dead now.

  All the more reason why I took the knife from him,

  Walked to the far end of the table,

  Handed it to my eldest cousin,

  And said, “It’s your turn this year.”

  He carved it indelibly.

  His wife poured the wine,

  And then made a toast. After much stuttering,

  The red grape juice sloshed

  As our glasses clinked together.

  No one seemed to notice

  As bits of the food and drops of the wine

  Stained the tablecloth.

  MAN PLUS ONE IN THE MOON

  My moon is where

  Two souls live

  Their hands are forever

  Reaching out

  Trying to scoop the sun

  With the silver-plated spoons that I may

  Or may not

  Have given to them

  My eye sees and my head reads

  The hope on their faces

  And my spirit is sad

  To have to watch as those two

  Try to make the sun

  One of their toys

  Of which they have very few

  As one of them is standing on one leg

  Trying to get a better reach

  I notice her cute little foot is bare

  And think that maybe I should offer them socks

  It must be chilly

  Although

  Admittedly

  I do not really know the temperature

  Felt by bare feet on the grit

  I do know

  How it feels to reach

  For the sun

  For a little bit of summer

  Not that that’s what they’re after

  They can’t know what that is

  Back on the planet

  Where there are seasons

  I watch

  And wish

  That I was not so near

  That I was so far

  Away

  That I couldn’t see them

  As anything other

  Than a blip behind the clouds

  Because even knowing that I am their

  Godly mother

  And watching them

  Shimmer, as if wet

  From an impossible rainfall or dew

  I feel that already

  I have seen to much

  And that already

  I am intruding

  On their El Dorado

  Made of tinsel and origami towers

  I am afraid that

  I’ll crush it

  Before too long

  Still, spitefully, I look on

&n
bsp; Because I want

  To see

  With both eyes and gesturing hands

  When they catch

  The light

  I have to see

  The look on their faces

  Have to watch the joy

  And relief of a journey

  All done and over with

  Erupt over their faces

  Maybe I can feel those things with them

  And then, maybe

  My own search will be over

  And maybe I

  Will be able to turn

  Away from the silvery moon

  And towards the figures of gods

  And heroes

  Standing swiftly in the heavens

  Behind the crooked star grids

  Crisscrossed and bombarded by comets

  So that I may transcend

  Only to look

  Down

  And watch dozens more

  As they bring back chunks of cloud fluff and moon dust

  When they were scooping for sunlight

  In the spoon of the one on tiptoes

  I believe

  That I see

  A spark

  Near Miss

  The Day After