Hope is a thing with leaden feet
that one day--so you think--
will take-off running.
Ga Ga Gammor slapped
a cop and
got off with
pro-bay-she-own.
That Hungarian tart--
that Tartarian hoar--
she no want disabled
retardo montebons in the
front row of her shew
no more
no more.
Parking Meter
Two-headed Cerberus of the
almighty nickel; gulping
glutton of the coinage realm.
I forgot to feed her and
now a dog-faced meter maid writes
a ticket out for
me, god, and City Hall.
My father ed in the gas station
at his desk
reading "Titus Andronicus"--
acrid odour of gasoline, smudge
of oil, grease...
The war he was in--
a bloody horror show
too.
Train whistle, pain
whistle, why doth thy
blow? You
wake the world
around, and
what for?
To move your iron
ass from "A" to point "B,"
sure--
but is it necessary
to wake the dead
as well?
I'm Mary Jane Bugaboo
how do you do?
So glad to meet cha.
Won't you have a seat?
Take a drink?
Well, think about it
won't you?
too paranoid to tell
his psychiatrist--
afraid she'd join the plot
April's icy breath:
cold feet in the bed
cold hands on my chest
dancing waves
onto rocky shore--
rocks clack like castanets
trum trum trum
trum from
the refrigerator
Wayne F. Burke's poetry has been widely published in print and online (including in LOTHLORIEN POETRY JOURNAL). He is author of 8 published full-length collections of poetry, one short story collection, and two nonfiction works (most recently BUKOWSKI the Ubermensch, Cyberwit.net., 2023). He lives in Vermont (USA).
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