PUNCHLINE A lithe smile smooth under the kind neon Wall-hangings, I slid up beside the blonde Peering herself pretty in the ash colored Mirror hanging behind the bar, fingering a tired Temple. This was not her first time puzzling out the reasons why She was spending another night Propped on the same stool and the same wish That one of those big rigs rolling past the window Would stop and hustle her down the sighing road. She poked at her drink and called for another. I paid for the next and the shrug of her shoulder And waited for the last hauler to join the train To smile saying, Honey, your middle name Ought to be Grace. And she laughed, Darling Youve no idea. Im already wearing That joke for my first name. Its not so funny anymore. I don't need two of the same and Ive heard that line before. RESCUE Sometimes God looks like a helicopter but we've prayed three cold days away wishing the dark thunder of an Apache or a Blackhawk out of the clouds. Three days crouched under plastic and four feet of snow swearing to vote for military spending. Our faces set like soldiers hoping their way through enemy fire: the sharp cocked surrender of branch after branch. Don't you hear? Even the trees are howling against this wind. Why dont you rise and tear through this valley, low and fast, your blades beating the beating air? At night I dream my father is a pilot. I see him hover his smile above the trees as if to say how silly-the six of you, children, lost in all this whiteness. Did you think I would not come? Saying no, oh, no, oh god- damn this cold, we uncocoon on the first clear dawn, zipping ourselves into action, our bodies the only movement across this white piled ground. Our tracks plod out behind us, messy and slow across too many too cold miles trying to tune our voices to your frequency. Can't you see us doing our best, turning our hottest face toward your infrared eyes? --Dan Stout [return to main page] |