THREE POEMS

I was thirteen when I saw The Good, the Bad, & the Ugly
on a twelve-inch GE B&W Dad got me for my birthday.  
Yellow plastic with a handle on top for easy traveling;  
it never left the top of my bookcase.

Three knobs on front: power, volume, channel changing  
dial. Three late shows until 1:00AM. Then test pattern  
hum and buzz after the Anthem—hanger-rigged  
an antenna to get a snowed out WGN from Chicago.

The next three years I learned about The Big Sleep,   
Once Upon a Time in the West—became a Bowery   
Boy. Read lips with sound turned down, fell in love   
with Ingrid, Lauren, and Rita.  
   
After I moved out, the folks got cable— 57 channels   
and nuthin’ ever on. My television is smart, remote  
controlled, HD, stereophonic. I press a button—  
take Daisy for a walk. 

Sixteen—I dodged cars on Superior St., a jaywalking
cheetah with a heart full of napalm.

Twenty-one—I drove into a house. A stitched-up
young Frankenstein. Next night at the bar—

I used to want to die young, but it's too late now.

Home is a circle in the woods: deer chase crows
from the birdbath, turkeys claim the yard.

You forget to close things: doors, windows, the kitchen
looks like an Advent calendar left out until spring.

My lumberjacking snores earn elbow jabs throughout 
the night.

We stroll through the neighborhood, read names on
shiny carved marble, tilted ivory markers.

You stand next to a sapling oak, fold your arms, smile—
Daisy chases a squirrel around a crypt.

Laid out on my bed I feign deafness, the yell runs up 
the stairs: Turn that shit down! 

Bonham’s drumbeat breaks the levee, I count down ten 
seconds until the next holler.

Heat waves float out the cracked window—I blow 
an exhale, light up.

Close my eyes, imagine water drowning hills, valleys,
vibrations sludge through the wall.

I rub the bruise on my arm, feel the swelling in my eye
pulse, squint until the sun disappears.

Like clockwork, his boots hit the steps, I crank it up —
fire another cigarette.