Parade (and other poems)
These poems are from a manuscript composed entirely of prose poems. Though around since the 19th century, some people still need a minute to decide if a prose poem is "poetry" or not. I agree with James Tate's theory that the prose poem invites the reader in--it doesn't look like a poem and before a reader knows it, they're hooked. I love Mary Ruefle's take on it: "A three-hour class on what is a prose poem is? A waste of time. That doesn’t mean it can’t be prose, or that prose can’t be poetry—but for all practical, speaking purposes, it’s right-flush margin or it’s lineated. It’s so simple.”
Crockpot
1) You pulled a blueprint from your back pocket. It looked like a Greek column from the den and a dog hotel from the couch. Art thou bored? Maybe a moot point. To my surprise, some nautical manoeuvres worked on land. You demonstrated them without passion; you made it look easy. Nothing was easy for Tchaikovsky and look what he did.
2) Idea for a statue: a runner with folded arms at second base. Any pizza with pineapple we still call Hawaiian. Something is wrong. I don’t want to work, I just want to lounge in my presidential bathrobe all day.
3) My embalmer friend of 25 years is smoking a pipe when I see him. The pipe belonged to a beloved prime minister. “I’m surprised that’s not in a museum,” I say. We talk like this for some time, getting nowhere. Another hurricane spins like a divining top toward the country. Egyptologists, their superstitions leak into our hearts although we know better.
4) Gossip about a trebuchet. Samantha, on one crutch, egging us on.
5) Ambitious network TV event miniseries were what the neighbourhood was missing this whole time. A double dare saw me walk across an iced over lake. Yes, I fell on my ass, but that was not the worst of it, Peter Weller.
Parade
I walked out to the barn. It was a day like any other, probably a Wednesday. I checked in on the animals because I'm a responsible person. The chickens were fine. The horses seemed in good spirits, especially Ambulance Driver. I was almost through my daily round when it occurred to me: the asses were gone. No trace. I called their names, "Grumpy? Murky? Needy?" Nothing. The fence wasn't open. There were no tire tracks or hoof prints. Did I even have any asses to begin with? I looked around, but the answer wasn't up the oak or peeking from the birdbath. Lapsed, I went back inside and flipped on the news. There was some capsizing at the boat parade. I poured the largest glass of lemonade in my life, but couldn’t finish.
A Wedding
A mouthful of water does not a bucket make. This thought at the monsoon wedding. The bride insisted on keeping G-d out of it. The groom paid handsomely for catering from his favourite hot dog vendor. It’s a paper moon or a paper heart, I can’t remember which. A child’s head appeared from under a party supply tablecloth. The whole ordeal like being stuck on a desert island listening to Penderecki. It just made me miss the boat more.