Six Poems by Michael Ball

 

67 Cars

 

With incessant hazard lights 

front and rear, nictating —

sharp red, dull, repeating.

Plus three police SUVs

also flashing, but blue lights…

without sirens,…for the dead.

Caddies, one hearse and two more

limos for the family,

and one more for grave flowers.

 

Tinned weepers and tinned chauffeurs.

Tinned staties and tinned lilies.

A single bronze-boxed body.

Each and all roll unpausing

through traffic lights to Fairview.

 

This cortege is not so bold

as a gilded Nile barge

or even horse-drawn caisson.

Yet 67 cars are

a non-musical theatre —

silent but with a large cast.

 

Roberta, 74,

 is no more. Was she famous,

infamous or merely rich?

Gone to sing with the angels,

was today her curtain call?

 

Auxiliary Red

 

Lips need not be all that plump,

but red remains right and righteous.

Dozens of reds duel, some patriotic…

Victory, Auxiliary, Pirate, Majesty.

Redder than blood or anything real.

 

Girls pink flushed in flirtation

— fleetingly, strongly joyful —

count coup, as the Cheyenne

did in battle. They mark boys.

 

Planting a flag in foreign soil,

you might brand my nipple,

(without sear and smell) or

tattoo me (without pain or stain).

 

That double, red Hunter’s Bow

is flagrant on a white collar.

Wives aha at dark signs of sin

and sing, said you were untrue.

 

Red lips may mark cocktail glasses,

coffee cups and cigarette filters.

Church ladies and real women alike

make red love to folded tissues.

 

It is my choice to allow marks

on a cheek, even a flag on a pec.

You would claim me with vermeil

lip smudges to prove your visits.

 

To you, the red marks are ownership

and I willingly wear your marks.

This sudden, darker, areola is proof

I was desired, sought, and caught.

 

 

Penn Station Shame

Clinches and kisses abound in train town,

ranging from sweet to lewd,

Each and all lasting too long for the comfort of passersby

Her college girlfriend awaited

somewhere out on Long Island.

But neither of us would quit the dare.

Her thigh climbed over my hip,

exposing merely lust, no parts.

Even with his brown skin and blue uniform,

the official spectator obviously blushed.

Finally, that Penn Station guard had to say,

“This is a public place.”

 

We played the game until train time.

We had our personal business first.

This was worse, more public, than, “No, you hang up.”

 

 

Lovers’ Necklace

 

We grieve each empty setting.

The necklace gapes, with tiny

claws curving for each lover

uncaptured or unpursued.

 

The necklace becomes heavy

and long, yet it is missing

stones we notice and desire.

In the Braille of memory

and of anticipation,

our fingers sense just the gaps.

 

Even in our subtle grief,

we would still wear this necklace

at all times and for all time.

There can be only one jewel

that belongs in each setting.

 

Redolence

 

Straighten an elbow to touch

fingers into a crystal bowl

brimming with hard candies.

 

Old ladies’ end tables kept

dishes of suckable amusements

in clear view and in reach.

 

Their ancient men invariably

plucked one angled candy, only

to crunch it loudly between molars.

 

After sipping your demitasse of black tea,

you surely would find the half bath

to wash and dry your greedy hands.

 

There too wafts hard-candy scents,

odours of never-lit candles and florals

from shell-shaped hand-soap bars.

 

Later in the dark, scents on fingers,

sheets and undies were evocative—

creamed corn, cured tobacco leaf.

 

Not every waft has the power

of madeleines to transport. Yet,

each has memory and promise.

 

 

Absurd

 

Long-term lovers mind meld,

− Think Vulcan Mr. Spock −

unaware and against their will.

 

Why have separate brains?

Two may suffice, but one is best.

 

The unobservant imagine

wife and hubby grow to look alike.

That’s for pets instead.

Spouses take each other’s minds.

 

Do not laugh when they invariably

finish sentences for the other.

They are aliens living within.

Michael Ball scrambled from newspapers through business and technical pubs. Born in OK and raised in rural WV, he became more citified in Manhattan and Boston. One of the Hyde Park Poets, he has moderate success placing poems including in Griffel, Elevation Review, Gateway Review, Havik Anthology, SPLASH!, Peregrine Journal, In Parentheses, Spillwords, It’s All About Arts, Kind Writers, and Reality Break Press. Featured poet at Menino Arts Center, Rozzie Reads, and Open Door Yoga Center for the Arts. and 2022 Boston Mayor’s Poetry displayed in City Hall.