Foggy Day

How do people get along

in places where the sun

hides almost every day?

I can't imagine it

since I'm evaporating slowly

into this fog myself.

The sun's given up on us

it seems . . .

angry about something or other

as if it didn't know

what was coming when it got the job!

I'm sure there was a sad comment or two

from the angels

about this situation called "humanity"

and all the screw ups we'd be making

down the line

but hiding so long only makes things worse

pills and booze and ropes come out of the closets

a "goodbye letter" gets scribbled on a nice white napkin

and someone starts smashing mirrors

down the street . . . I heard it myself, yesterday.

Come on out, Sun!  I can't take much more of this.

Ugh! The DRAMA!!!

Joanne Cucinello  2013

See How He Waits

 

He sits on that long wire, stark and solitary,

a dark hyphen in the gloomy backdrop

of the winter's sky

a Blackbird, perched there for weeks now

the way my grandfather sat on that chair in the kitchen

staring at the teapot, waiting for the whistle to blow,

waiting for someone to tell him his wife wasn't dead.

Even in the snow, that lonely bird keeps

chirping with his mouth wide open

like a hatchling hoping to be fed or

waiting for the flutter of his mate's wide wings.

I wonder if she's lost or dead like Grandma

or maybe waiting for him somewhere

with a broken wing, unable to fly

but she hasn't returned and I don't think she will.

Grandma didn't, no matter how long that old man waited.

He wanted to die too, so he went in the bathtub

and never came out.

Blackbird's losing his feathers . . . it won't be long now.

Joanne Cucinello  2012