Joan Pond
 
 

REMAINING CLUELESS

Nantucket Looms,
as the Chicken Box booms.
This early AM,
Ted Kennedy seems green
about the gills.
Guess he had his fill
  of the Club Car.
I know the feeling.
I'd been there before,
with a loser-type.
He'd asked if I believed in reincarnation,
  after I'd had a few.

Sober,
I wouldn't have
a clue.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

PREDICTING THE FUTURE

I was wearing my U.S.M.C. shirt.
Nonchalant,
a woman approached
and handed me a pamphlet.
'A Peaceful New World
When Will it Come?'
Hey,
I'm no fortune-teller,
nor soldier of fortune, ma'am.
I'm just your average Joe,
Jane Doe.

I suppose it was
  the shirt.
 
 
 

NEEDLES OF PINE

I turned
and you were gone.

Clusters of blue hydrangea
and the scent of sweet privet,
were all that remained.
The cobblestones I'd traversed
for so many years,
seemed threatening.

A police officer asked,
'are you okay?'

Suddenly,
a whiff of pine reminded me,
of a pillow I'd had in Vermont.
It was filled with prickly needles,
offering a certain scent
  of solace.

I turned
but you were gone.
 
 
 

ON BEING THE HIRED HELP

The Watch Tower Bible and Tract Society
visit
quite often.
I wear a Marine Corps cap
and green Wellies.
I must appear
as hired help.
But I live here,
and have one hundred and eight-two acres
to maintain.

A woman in an ankle length skirt,
skirts my wet dog
to ask,
"Will our future be any better?"

"Lady," I say. "I'm only the hired help."

She smiles,
rushing off
to find the owner.

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