Jim Zola: two poems
The first of the two following poems was nominated by WINK: Writers in the Know for the 2018 Pushcart Prize:
The Morning of My Death
For it most certainly will be morning, someone forgets to shut the front door. The dog wanders out and away and is forgotten, adopted by a family with eight children– one more mouth doesn’t matter. The door comes unhinged. How many times did I take a hammer and whack the damn thing back into place? The house too is falling apart. Somewhere in the confusion is a list of things that need doing. I told you I was going out to get the paper. I forgot to shut the door.
Firebug Finds Love If they made a sulfur-scented aftershave, I’d rock it. But I seldom need to shave. The man next door hides behind a beard. He sneaks outside to smoke cigarettes, an occasional cigar, puffed to the nub and gathered in a plastic solo cup. He sniffs the air as if he might sense me behind the window’s shade. My earliest memory was playing in the fire pit on camping trips; trapping beetles between the red-hot logs until they sizzled, popped. I’ve never had a real girlfriend, but the checkout girl where I get my matches is as beautiful as a butterfly in flames.