Three Poems

The Review

Dusk. Dried ginger. Cant Bust ‘Em overalls.
A jar cap of milk for the cat.
Meeting a man who has real regret.
His wife. His child.
Writing these things down,
marking his path from mine.



Kingsbury Road

This coworker ranting to me.
This monster, he says.
The hopelessness, he says.
His dictum of the end.
We are atop the bulkhead, looking out.
Seagulls. Burton Dock.
Recalling the grocery list,
ghee, honeycomb, oranges.
And last night, saying to her,
what kind of life would it be,
one in which she could not eat an orange a day.



The Pen

Let the proprietors of this batting cage consider this:
we have not stumbled in by chance.
A plan had been set, intentions exchanged.
Only sometimes do we know what we want.
Those brief glimpses,
to know what tools are needed for what job
and where to get them.
It is a rare thing.
I’d let the world take its turn if I could.
I’d let her walk ahead and only watch her heels.
That alone could do it for me.
Loitering at the cages with what I think I know,
reminding myself, with increasing enthusiasm,
that I was here and not some place else.

____
Drew Mosman lives in Washington State.