The Minor Poet Gives 
the Two-Poem Warning

Two more poems, the poet says,

much as the nicotine addict promises

just two more cigarettes before he quits.

Or the child begs for one more story 

and then another before the light dims.

Or the man leaving his wife and Rottweiler

says of the matching coffee mugs they bought together

that summer in Provincetown, keep them, they’re yours.

And we are relieved, for we can now forget his birches

and binoculars, the tattoo on the right arm

of his left-handed waitress, his one-minute eggs,

the Count Baisie Orchestra in the middle of the prairie

and the twelve small marinated mammals

served up on toast–all the sadly strange things

he has been going on about. We can forgive ourselves

for the moments our attention lapsed,

and concentrate on these last two gems

that will knock us out of our folding chairs–

that is, if he can find them in the scribble

that seems to be multiplying on the lectern:

new poems, of course, hot off the pen, pencil,

greasy napkin, gas bill, envelope,

no, here on his laptop, iphone, ipad, if he can just find

the little bastards, apparition of these faces in the crowd

and the facilitator is waving her watch

and making frantic T signs with her hands,

and finally the poet throws the mess over his shoulder,

he will find something, anything, two random poems,

these will do, and whatever they are, they are the end

we have been waiting for: Petals on a wet, black bough.

Coffee Cup

Silly to have a favorite when any cup will do

to convey the milky brown heart of the morning,

but, like you, I have had a few through the years

that pleased me more than others,

the favorite child in the cupboard,

the one no good parent admits preferring,

the teacher’s pet who should not be pardoned

for that half-baked essay, crumpled and a day late.

And perhaps the cups know as children seem to know

who is the favorite.  I knew I was not the most beloved

among my sisters, too broad, too shy­­–though a teacher

or two chose to praise my clumsy determination,

which is perhaps why I don’t like those cute cups

with slick statements, the cow proclaiming it’s udder chaos,

why I prefer the hand-thrown clunker

that shouldn’t be used in a microwave,

the one that gets a little too hot, but has the perfect lip,

not too thick or saucy, a cup perhaps

with a marled glaze, blue swirled green or brown,

which I will remember long after it cracks,

remember it when I raise to my mouth another

as I remember former students, tongue-tied and awkward.

That it should be so. That in this world we love,

so much does not remember us or love us back.

Hard White Damn
            Winter 2013-2014

Though the snow doesn’t give a soft white

damn whom it touches,¹

the woman at breakfast

is all hard white brimstone,

snow predicted with the smack

of private apocalypse,

the end is coming, and she’s ready

to leave this god-forsaken artists center

with its wilted lettuce and frozen toast

and join her husband,

who is supposed to fly to Charlottesville

to drive her home, but now

his flight may be cancelled.

She knows what hotel they’ll stay in

if he makes it but after living

at the edge of these cows

and huddled horses,

hell seems the surer thing

on the blizzard map.

Once again the weather prophets

are predicting scriptural drift,

and she’s the  woman

planning to be disappointed

at the resurrection,

knowing, as she does,

 that salvation

is a matter of degree

between 32 and 33.

¹ E. E. Cummings

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© Copyright, 2014,  Lois Marie Harrod.
All Rights Reserved.