Four Poems by Scott Waters

 

Sweet Ruin 

 

I could have gone on 

aching down lamplit streets 

 

gazing at lives lived 

in glowing glass cases 

 

kid noses pressed to picture windows 

 

parents making dinner in gleaming kitchens 

 

and I with my collar raised 

against the evening chill 

 

invisible to the well-lit residents 

of those rambling houses 

 

a solitary walking-wound-of-a-man 

 

arranging poems like abacus beads 

in my wool-capped head 

 

savouring the sweetness of dejection 

 

tart skin of melancholy 

turning on my tongue 

 

mantle of monkhood 

heavy and welcome  

on my stooped shoulders 

 

my name already etched 

behind grime and dust 

on some tilted tombstone 

smothered in bramble 

in a dark corner 

of a forgotten graveyard 

in a little nothing town— 

 

but you answered my personal ad 

 

and ruined everything.

 

 

I Wish I Were a Mailman 

 

Satchel slung like a warm baby 

across my well-exercised body, 

feet snug in my boots, sun  

like a hand on my back, 

rain and sleet prickling my face 

and reminding me I am alive, 

I am a U.S. postal worker, 

my duty is to deliver the mail 

faithfully, to hand bacon treats 

to savage dogs until they are 

lifelong friends, to worship 

chewing gum clouds and trembling 

trees, to fold the origami sky  

into my back pocket and pour 

envelope waterfalls through  

mail slots, to pet holy cats 

pursuing Buddhahood 

on simmering carpets of grass, 

to one day drive my little truck 

in pursuit of a monarch butterfly, 

forgetting my route and my 

responsibilities, forgetting 

even the butterfly, pressing on 

through crumbling valleys  

and festering fields until  

I reach the improbable mountains, 

eyes agog at granite cascades 

tumbling inches from my 

hairpin tires, a bald eagle 

watching calmly as I execute 

a perfect barrel roll down  

the slope and come to rest 

against a ponderosa pine, 

little white truck on its side,  

two wheels slowly spinning, 

a brown rabbit shyly investigating 

the squeak.

 

~ 

 

Upon further consideration, 

accountant might be a better choice.

 

 

One Flew Over the Matzah Nest 

 

We buy gluten-free, 

non-kosher matzah— 

all that’s left on the raided 

grocery store shelf. 

 

After the Passover Seder 

at my in-laws’ house, 

we return home and find 

the forgotten, unopened box 

 

on the kitchen counter. 

My son opens it, 

nibbles a corner of a flat, 

unleavened square, 

 

makes a face, 

and feeds the rest 

of the cracker 

to the dogs. 

 

~ 

 

The next morning  

he tries again — takes 

a faux matzah square  

to munch on our dog walk. 

 

Soon the dogs  

are crunching crackers 

while pulling for squirrels. 

I point at a crow 

 

on a nearby power line. 

“Let’s see if the crow 

likes it.” 

We cross the street. 

 

My son tosses 

a cracker in the gutter. 

We move away with the dogs, 

and the crow 

 

 

swoops down,  

clasps the matzah 

in its beak, and flaps 

toward a stand of oak trees. 

 

~ 

 

Up in the shady nest, 

the crow feeds pieces 

of the gluten-free, 

non-kosher matzah 

 

to its three fledglings, 

little pitch-black beaks 

snapping and softening 

the crisp bread, 

 

the baby crows  

knowing nothing yet 

of suffering, 

only that the world  

 

in all its infinite variety 

is brought to them, 

bland and complete, 

on the toasted white tray 

 

of a cracker.

 

 

Dead Man’s Guitar 

 

blonde sitka 

spruce 

 

dusted 

polished 

 

till it shines 

 

dull 

decade-old 

 

brass strings 

replaced 

 

new ones tuned 

till they ring out  

 

brown curve 

resting 

 

on my thigh 

 

left hand 

on the neck 

 

right hand 

fingerpicking 

 

and for a moment 

 

you are me 

and I am you 

 

flesh, spirit 

fused 

 

for a song

Scott Waters lives in Oakland, California with his wife and son.  He graduated with a Master's Degree in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University.  Scott has published previously in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Third Wednesday, Main Street Rag, Better Than Starbucks, Dreich, The Sandy River Review, and many other journals.  Scott's first chapbook, Arks, was published by Selcouth Station, and his poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.