Fall 2006 Museletter

Museletter Poetry Page

Arrivals and Departures
Editor: Wendy Vardaman

RUMMAGE

Rummage. Was it a noun or a verb?
To my mother, an early bird arrival
at every sale, it was both—

an adjective too
luring her into yards
like a casino

where she gambled
on dragonfly bird feeders,
Legos, summer clothes for next year

plastic pumpkins, Favre hats,
Lion King décor,
American Tourister luggage,

crocheted pillows, glass dishes
shaped like pineapples
for yellow Jell-O

sweaters, pants and
socks she scoured
and scrubbed

but she never departed a sale
with used shoes, thinking
firm support

could not come from
someone else's footprint—
a point-of-view problem.

—Kathryn Gahl, Two Rivers

DISTANCE DRIVING

Tar-filled cracks rattle under my wheels
on the old road too long,
            too narrow,
            too straight,
            too flat.

How to avoid being numbed
by incessant, unnecessary chatter?
            Chew mints,
            look for windmills and flowers,
            listen to books on tape:

all the small, non-spectacular acts
that earn a destination,
            a front door,
            a chair beside the window,
            a cool drink in a tall glass.

—Sheryl Slocum, Lake Geneva

A DECEMBER TRIP HOME FROM THE CITIES

December makes no bones about it:
it is time and no matter how long

and mild the fall the Siberian Express
gathers itself and drops south

silently, slowly, and a hundred
cars are in the ditch within the hour,

and somewhere on the road
my daughter creeps along in a Civic

perhaps up the long steep hill
from the river border, no hat,

no blanket, no coffee can
with candles, no chocolate bar

to see her through should
she too slide sideways down

into the dirty roadside snow.
No call from her for hours,

and I imagine her fingers
and toes frostbitten. But when

she comes she says her knees
were the worst; she’s sorry she’s late.

And I gather her into my arms
safe one more time.

—Peg Lauber, Eau Claire

HERE AND GONE

slipping through the gaping back door
stepping over abandoned school books
lying by the half-closed fridge
spying the knife-impaled peanut butter jar
sliding over PBJ remnants
congealing on the linoleum
rescuing the mangled milk cap
separating door and energy conservation
replacing said cap on 4 tablespoons of milk in jug
navigating over disemboweled backpack
locating the broom
chasing Hansel's bread crumbs out the
gaping back door

—Kathy Keeney, Green Bay

MILWAUKEE’S FIRST DANCE

Ladies with big south side hair
Spin like tops in polyester pairs.
Fans overhead slowly turn the hot summer air.
Conversations lite as baseball, recipes and Tupperware.

Widowed mothers dance with daughters, turning gently round,
The corner bar dance floor with the south side sound.

5 p.m. Saturday mass is long since past
As the congregation says “amen,” and the pitcher is passed.

Accordion maestro with the greased-back hair
Sends sweethearts and old hipsters moving—as if floating on air.

Eighty-year-old charmer in a bowling shirt
Spins his girl friend wearing a poodle skirt.
Who surrender Medicare worries beneath a disco ball.
Milwaukee's first dance lives again at Sue’s Dance Hall.

—Charles P. Ries, Milwaukee
First Place, Rhyming Category,
2003 Mississippi Valley Poetry Contest
First Place, 2003 OnMilwaukee.com Poetry Contest

APOLOGIES FOR BEING LATE AGAIN

My alarm didn’t go off, or
half awake I turned it off.
I just overslept.
I spent too much time in the bathroom.
I thought the meeting started at ten,
not nine-thirty. I had to go back
to get my briefcase. The cat got out
and we had to hunt for her
all over the neighbors’ yards.
My doctor’s office called back
just as I was heading for the door.
My husband had to drive me,
and he didn’t start shaving
till it was almost time to go.
We hit every red light
between there and here.
I forgot I was supposed to be here.
Nobody told me there was a meeting.
I didn’t think you’d care.

—Nadine S. St. Louis, Eau Claire

SUMMER REUNION
For Rudy Horn 1921-2006

On the lawn west of the summer house,
I watch my husband and daughter riding
in a black Model T Ford so old its radiator holds
by rust and memory; constantly boiling brown
water, it sputters and bounces through daisies
and loosestrife out to the woods and back.

My elderly uncle watches beside me,
leaving an honored space at his side
for my aunt, two years gone. Once
winner of bronze and silver stars for heroism
now he and the car are remnants of an era.
“ I could go any time,” he remarks.

A curious pattern of purple bruises
flowers his forearms, as if his veins, too,
are rusting away. “We all could,” I say.
“ No, really,” he says and as shadows stretch,
I see beyond him that final sputtering
curve through flowers, into the trees.

—Sandra Lindow, Eau Claire

LAST PITCH

Ever miss ending an inning
with a fast ball
right down the middle?
I do.
Batter misses it by a mile;
you trot to the dugout,
guys all slapping you on the back…

When I lean back
I look straight down the hall,
see the podium in the boardroom,
the Big Kahuna
giving his power point presentation,
and I wish I had the old arm back
for just one pitch.

Bottom of the ninth,
count three and two.
You blaze one right down the alley.
The stands go wild.
You walk slowly off the field
tipping your cap to the crowd.

—William T. McConnell, Verona

Theme for Winter issue:
Humor

Deadline:
Friday, November 3, 2006