In a Tree, A Pair of Lungs Were Barely Breathing
A boy climbed a tree
to touch breathing lungs
among the dark branches.
They felt soft, wet, warm.
Close by, he watched them
inflate, deflate like one of
of his own birthday balloons
he often struggled to fill.
At first, he fought off
the urge to share the news
with his folks. Then, relented,
climbed down monkey-like,
swinging on branches.
He dashed home. “Lungs don’t
grow in trees!” papa said.
His mama rebuked the boy,
“Don’t kid a kidder!”
After crying, pleading,
he lead them to the tree.
Underneath, they peered up.
The lungs, delicately pink,
breathing, had vanished.
“Where? Where are they?”
he cried. His papa shouted,
“Don’t lie to us again!”
Mama slapped his mouth.
When the buds sprouted leaves,
the boy returned to the tree,
hoping one more time
to catch the unexplainable
but it never happened again.
Why couldn’t I keep my big
mouth shut? If only I had
never taken them there.
Why did they have ruin it?
After a Gunfight Day, the Policeman
swallowed his nerves.
With the barrel of his gun,
his wife smack him. Hard!
“Serves you right, coward,”
she opined. Suddenly,
topless dancers spun.
dipped, smiling around
his throbbing melon.
Next, she kicked him
in the nether regions.
He cried out and fell.
“Smile? How dare you!”
she snarled. “The kids
rely on you, buster.
You want Molly to
cry herself asleep,
with stabbing hunger?
You would. Wouldn’t you?”
A vision of himself
on fire, walking on
on a river, singing
swirled out of his
aching, broken mind.
“How dare you dream
while I stand here in a
walking nightmare!”
With his own nightstick,
she furiously beat him.
Everything collapsed.
Inside darkness creeped.
“How dare you go, leaving
me alone with these brats!
You selfish bastard!?
Then, silence held him
in her arms, pressed him
close to her warm breasts.
Her hair was fragrant,
brown eyes so tender,
he swam to the light.
Revise
The poet revises his face.
He scrapes the hair off
leaving tingling follicles.
His nose—he makes smaller,
then larger, then smaller,
nostrils left flaring.
Why stop there? Why not slice
off those chipmunk cheeks.
Ah, yes, better.
The eyes? Wrong color.
Why not blue, no green
like his former wife’s.
His teeth—that top gap
must go. Too yellow.
Better bone white.
Forehead creases, crow’s
feet clawing his right eye,
definitely gotta bounce.
Now, in the mirror,
who the hell is he?
Is he someone he
might stop to talk to,
or someone to ignore?
Poor devil, he can’t decide.