They bang down the street all full
of themselves taking up
both ways, stop where they want,
how long they want. I love
the lift and clank of them.
No lilies in Monet’s garden,
more bulbous frogs. The trucks squat
and wail. They hum.
When I was six
on the swing at school, I tried
to match my hum
to the revolving world.
Did I mention last week's cut
sunflowers that sat without water
until their giant heads drooped?
Broken they fell into grace,
the giant screech and maw.
Zeus Plays Pool with Time
Zeus, slick pool shark, chalk hand, strolls
like he just struck a kiss shot
from the back of the kitchen. Always
the actor: hustler, priest, rap star
minus the lyric menace. Hard to rage when
you are the ultimate rager.
In a poseur green visor, he bank shot
the Peloponnesian wars into another
Congolese genocide. Zeus doesn't care
if you have a kid before
you tie the knot. He might even edgewise
make it happen. All the time you've been
shooting the shit, Zeus has
racked and cracked. He’s always on
to the next loser.
Deborah Bacharach is the author of After I Stop Lying, with poems in journals such as Adroit, The Carolina Quarterly, and The Southampton Review.