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.
No Man
My client sat near the philodendron,
it’s shiny leaves receding.
Anthony said, ‘I’m concave’,
and he begged me to save him
from himself.
But he was a cavern,
a bottomless pit.
He transmogrified
as a snowman in the sun,
quickly changing from solid to gas.
He was an amorphous mass
seated on my couch.
And as an M.C. Escher print
he began spiraling in,
until coal black eyes
and a button nose
were all
that remained.
***
The Gardener’s Fern Book
by Joan Pond
The gardener’s fern book
was filled with clutter.
A program from a flower show
at the Mattatuck Museum,
with a special thanks from Dr. Gray.
Mom’s ‘hide and seek’ exhibit
was judged,
too sophisticated for the masses.
There was a Father’s Day card
and
A Valentine for Someone Special.
Imagine going through this book
after she was gone?
With all her belongings
falling,
as leaves
from a tree.
***
The Feel of Spandex
It’s a routine exam.
No need to get undressed,
to check arthritic joints
and all the rest which fails.
It’s getting worse,
he assails with words.
Then, his hand
runs the length of my leg,
tracing meager contours and curves.
I am vexed
and wonder,
is it me
or the feel of spandex
he desires?
***
All I ‘See’ Is Carpeting
by Joan Pond
The streets of Kensington gave me trouble,
so I doubled back to the flat.
Driving on the wrong side
I panicked at an intersection,
threatening to cut me in two.
I should have listened to you
and taken the tram.
Sheer hell will break loose,
for dinging your Bentley.
My ass is in a sling,
then over your knee;
while you explain why Yanks
should leave driving to the Brits.
Yet all I
‘see’,
is carpeting.