Mouthful
of Poems
after Charles Simic
In walked a man with a mouthful of poems.
A wheel detached from a bicycle,
explored the wild country for a while,
then got lost in the woods—last seen
(maybe) floating down a river.
The gas attendant embarrassed everybody
(but not himself) with his tale
about the green-apple bubble-gum tree.
We all missed grandfather's prophetic
final words: we were distracted
by the sight of a snowy owl, who had
perched on the handle of a rusty shovel
stuck into the earth.
If you make a sailboat out of newspaper
the headlines might bleed.
The country store had no fresh vegetables
or fruit, but plenty of guns and ammo.
Carry the oil lamp through a dark forest.
Make ready the scaffolding for the effigy.
A fat crow on a thin branch
looks out over the frozen river.
Remember,
My Death-Angel
The
bland suburban neighbourhood of my memory.
My tongue rebelled after running up against
the sawblade of those letters.
And after the aromatic sock hop,
our noses got itchy.
Whenever Kajagoogoo played
the shambling would begin.
Later, a man petted his hyperactive motorcar.
It was inadequate, I know.
You showed me
the place where—
out there in the field!—
farmers once grew churches.
They're something
of an invasive species now.
Adam Lawrence is from New
Brunswick, Canada. He currently works as a freelance editor and writer.
His poetry has appeared in Shot Glass Journal, Train: A Poetry
Journal, FreeFall Magazine, SurVision, and
Carousel Magazine.