Clear August Night

Annie’s kisses
are the ghostly trail
of shooting stars
that I catch
in my mouth
like tossed kernels
of pop corn
sprinkled with
a touch of salt,
a hint of chili powder.

Long Sunday Waiting for the Monday Appointment

I am all the music my fingers never played
and the chainless anchor
coral encrusted at the bottom of a shallow sea.

Might as well hide in the moon,
from all of the recycled bisquit boxes,
from all the tennis balls thrown for fetching.

I speak to the spray can that kills germs in the bathroom
and to my old dog whose eyes beg me
to put him down, end his labored breath.

See. There was once a woman to whom I would say,
I love you. But she is speechless now, a long record
of track marks and empty bottles.

As gently as possible, my old dog and I rise from the couch,
move to the porch and watch the world drive by.
I don’t know why this is better than not hearing

the distorted music of the cars as they speed by
or how the world makes a song of itself
that, miraculously, includes our slow wait for an end.

And I wonder why it is illegal, immoral, for me
to take myself there with my old dog
due to our long friendship, because of love.

Kenneth P. Gurney lives in Albuquerque, NM, USA. He enjoys hiking the desert and the foothills trails, finds inspiration everywhere and rarely declines dark chocolate when it is offered to him. He produces the poetry website Origami Condom.

Email: Kenneth P. Gurney

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