he tithed

He was five when his mother, the village whore, dressed him in girl’s clothes and kept him so garbed when her “friends” came to visit. The humiliation would be complete when she’d refuse to allow him to use the bathroom and he would wet his pants. He left her at 13, traveled to Ellis Island and the New World by himself. He told no one about any of that which he left, and why would he? But he would never forget it and simmered in him a harshness and violence that no one understood, because they only knew what they saw. He lived to be 101 years old, outlasting his wife and four children, two of whom he assaulted, sexually. On his deathbed he asked for his Savior’s forgiveness and the priest awarded it with a loving smile, never knowing the depth and breadth of his evil, not that it would have made a difference. After all, he tithed. His epitaph read, “In loving memory …”

same, same ...

The wall mirror in the guestroom was the first thing he shattered. He didn’t care about the “bad luck” superstition; he was too elated to care. He’d stared at the glass for more than an hour and, finally – splash! Glass flew everywhere, but none touched him. It was as though he were in some sort of protective bubble. He moved on to the mirror in the bedroom. Same. The wine crystal in the dining room – same, same, same, same, same.

the coke machine

The Coke machine refuses to give up
its cans and no
one seems
able
to fix it. The contraption lights
the room
and hums a hummy sound, but
refuses to
capitulate. Repairmen
come and go and come and go
and come and go,
again – sometimes the
same one. All admit her
fixed, or at least ready
to dispense and
disperse. But neither
occur. It’s as though she has a mind
of her
own. Yes,
her own.

what's seen

The light of the night illuminates the plight
of the lovers who can’t make it right.
It casts the shadows that darkens, it seems,
the two who want to make a life of their dream.

a spot

He stands at the edge of the rise, near the top, looking down at the river. The wind gusts, brittle, like a whipsaw, but he is oblivious to its edge. Fifteen feet below the water bubbles from a blue to a frothy black as it tumbles, at first, then cascades through and down the rapids. This always was one of his favorite spots. He’d heard, once, that this spot was haunted by an Indian who’d jumped to his death after losing his wife and child in a cavalry raid. He never bothered to investigate the story, mostly because he liked it so much. There was a chivalry and a loneliness to it and for some reason the combination captivated him.