4 Poems, Including ”Map of the Heart” and “My Beloved Ghosts”

Mailman

It’s mainly just bills
and catalogues I’m carrying.
Nothing is from me personally.
And they’re people
I just know as names
and no more.
I could have good news in my satchel,
but I suspect it’s mostly bad.
I don’t see the letters,
the parcels
being opened,
nor am I cursed or thanked.
I just stuff these missives,
as best as I can,
into the mailbox.
I am not indifferent,
at least not by nature.
But I’m just a link
who has no idea
as to the chain’s purpose.
So I just follow my job description:
Same streets, same houses
every day.
Dogs bark at me,
or they snarl
and wag their tails.
Dogs, at least,
eschew the message,
take me seriously.

My Beloved Ghosts

Just before dawn,
streetlamps
glow through
falling snow,

make faces
of the ones I loved as a child
like photos
on a fluid mantel—

such a good time we have
on either side of the window,
looking out,
peering in,
remembering each other—

first light reveals
nothing but

snow-packed white on the ground
with not a single print—

just a beautiful scene
with so much
to be beautiful about.

One-Trick Ray

If you never knew Ray,
it’s no great loss on your part.

Yes, he could push a silver chain
into one nostril
and then yank it out through his mouth.

But that was strictly a one-time thing.
Once the novelty wore off, so did Ray.

I can remember prepping for an exam
when Ray did his trick,
and then acing all the questions.

Or making eyes at some girl
whom I ended up dating for a year.

I remember Ray did it once
in the park,
and some old woman came up to him,
slapped his cheek,
said, “That was disgusting.”

If you never knew that old woman,
then that’s a greater loss than Ray.

Map of the Heart

…………..With this map of the heart,
…………..let’s make a little trip
…………..to the land of deeper love.

Why not start now?
I’ve drawn a line to follow.
…………..One that connects.
…………..One that’s unbroken.

On the way,
we can catch our breath
as often as necessary.

Or look backward
at the ground already covered.
…………..Or ahead
…………..to the remaining stretch.

If anything creates an obstacle,
we can jump over it
or walk around.

Maybe we’ll struggle against the current
for a time.
…………..But any vessel,
…………..with enough effort put into
…………..its propulsion,
…………..can make its way upstream.

On the way,
we may meet others just like us.
We can join forces,
find joy as much in the journey
…………..as the destination.

We will cross fields,
make our way through forests.
…………..One of us may even go
…………..astray from time to time.
…………..But the other will search and find.
…………..Who says we’re both not part bloodhound?

Self-control shouldn’t be assumed,
and any sudden fog must be approached cautiously.
We’ll give to the beggars on the way,
…………..but be wary.
…………..They could be scam artists.

Remember, storms on the horizon are not omens,
nor are the dark clouds that hang like lead weights overhead.
At worst, they’ll soak and terrify.
At best, they’ll clear whatever air needs clearing.

When night falls,
…………..we’ll sleep.
…………..Cue dreams
…………..that are a combination
…………..of our hopes and recollections.

We’ll encounter smooth surfaces,
and some quite undulating.
There’ll be movement and countermovement.
…………..One voice.
…………..Several voices at once.
…………..Weakening.
…………..Recovered strength.
…………..The expected.
…………..Strange things happening.

But if we keep to the trail,
avoid agitation and disagreement,
potholes and trip-wires,
we’ll be right back where we started,
if we’re lucky.

I Think, Therefore That’s Not Enough

I could be dead.
No one’s here to confirm my living.
I feel the paper’s texture,
hear the radio song,
plant my rear end firmly in a chair.
But is that enough?

I’ve heard that when you die,
you go on doing as before.
If you’re a lumberjack,
you swing a silent axe
against a tree trunk
that doesn’t even know you’re there.
If you’re a truck driver,
you’re still rolling down the highway,
only minus the truck.

I long for you to come home,
to say something to me,
waylay my suspicions.
Otherwise, it’s just me
and a desk that confirms nothing,
a book that could just as easily
be reading itself.

Conversation,
even a simple gesture
that acknowledges my presence.
In my current state, anything is everything.

Then I jab my finger with a pin.
I bleed.
Real, red human blood.
Now you’re talking.

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image: Lisa Fotios