winter poem by Curtis Dunlap

soaking our feet
was the beginning
of my undoing,
followed by the extra log on the fire,
then the nightcap of bourbon
and coke,
the gentle way
you stroked my thinning hair

a quarter century ago
we lay in front of the fire,
flesh on moist flesh,
unabated giving,
warm giddy pleasing
of each other

but there’s little of that to do
now that we’ve reached a time
of senior discounts
and AARP mailings

shall i mourn the passing of youth
and testosterone?
reach for a pill in a mad attempt
to recapture the bull
that i was?

sure. why not?

but not tonight,
no,
not while your delicate fingers
ferry me to sleep,
your breasts
the sweetest
pillows

winter poem by Curtis Dunlap

soaking our feet
was the beginning
of my undoing,
followed by the extra log on the fire,
then the nightcap of bourbon
and coke,
the gentle way
you stroked my thinning hair

a quarter century ago
we lay in front of the fire,
flesh on moist flesh,
unabated giving,
warm giddy pleasing
of each other

but there’s little of that to do
now that we’ve reached a time
of senior discounts
and AARP mailings

shall i mourn the passing of youth
and testosterone?
reach for a pill in a mad attempt
to recapture the bull
that i was?

sure. why not?

but not tonight,
no,
not while your delicate fingers
ferry me to sleep,
your breasts
the sweetest
pillows

Two Poems by Curtis Dunlap

Dear Nadine Pritchett

Don’t make promises
to our daughter
that you won’t keep.
Don’t tell her
that you’ll take her
shopping this weekend,
then interject
“provided I don’t have anything
else to do.”
You’re demeaning
your relationship
with your daughter,
giving yourself
an out,
putting her
on the back burner
of your priorities.
You’re making her feel
unworthy of your time when
you’re not worthy of her time.

You are self-absorbed,
Nadine Pritchett.
You live alone today
because you while away
hours
on Internet social groups.
You neglected
your child,
your husband,
your home.

We are happier
without you, Nadine Pritchett.
Our new home is clean.
There are no wine bottles
or cigarette butts
on the floor.
There are no lice
in our daughter’s bed.

There is a scent
of fresh baked bread
wafting through this home.
Our daughter
can have friends over
and not be ashamed
of her living conditions.

Thank you,
Nadine Pritchett
for dropping the surname
you acquired
during our wedding.

No longer
yours truly
and with as little love
as I can muster

Dewitt Smith

Two Poems by Curtis Dunlap

can you separate me from your poetry?

…she asked.
i stumble, mentally…
unable to comprehend the question,
my brain working frantically
to process an answer…

can you separate
the moon
from the ocean tides?

can you separate
a falling star
from a wish?

can you separate
the honey bee
from a blossom?

can you separate
a baby
from its mother’s breast?

she walks into the room
and i see
poetry

i hear sonnets, sestinas,
quatrains
in her soothing voice

her eyes
are pools
of haiku

she asked
can you separate me from your poetry?

and i feel like a computer
that’s been mind fucked
by Captain Kirk

____________

The Voice Inside Buzz Tulley’s Head

It’s her.
Grocery store manager now.
Maybe she’ll remember me.
Three decades is not that long.
Maybe she’ll remember
that kick-ass weed we smoked
after band practice the night
I drove her home.
Maybe she’ll remember
how we giggled uncontrollably
when we both had
the munchies.

Maybe she’ll remember
the ice cream truck
we saw near
this grocery store,
how I gunned my Camaro
down side streets
determined to catch
that ice cream truck.
Maybe she’ll remember
how I caught-up
to that ice cream truck
at the intersection
near the police station.
Maybe she’ll remember
how that ice cream truck
morphed into
an 18 wheeler right
before our eyes, the way
that truck driver
looked at us before
he flipped us off.
Maybe she’ll remember
how we laughed
’til we cried…

Yeah, man,
that was some wicked weed.

Look at her,
over there working
in the frozen foods’ aisle,
still beautiful.

Good Lord!
Think of all
the ice cream
we could have now!

Maybe we’re still tripping
from that last joint
we smoked.
Maybe
we’re still chasing
that ice cream truck.

Dewitt Smith Responds to His Ex-Wife’s Question of Do you miss me? by Curtis Dunlap

I don’t miss the stench
that greeted me at the door
after a day at work,
the dog shit and piss
accumulating gnats
I waved away
from my wine glass,
or my pleas
for you
to help me clean our home
while you slyly managed
to find something else
to do.

I don’t miss your touch
when you wanted sex,
or the way I cringed
when you tried to
woo me
into your filthy bed
I abandoned
a decade ago.

I don’t miss your cooking.
Pouring a jar
of store-bought Alfredo Sauce
over hamburger and noodles
does not constitute
a home cooked meal.

I don’t miss the way
you sat at the computer
chatting-up an
affair into the wee hours,
your fingers rapidly tapping
a cipher
of family deconstruction,
or your negligence
toward our children,
the ball games you missed,
your reply of “Go ask your father!”
when one of our children wanted
you
to fix them something to eat while
I studied for a test
or worked on a paper
for school.

I don’t miss having
to makes excuses for you
when your boss called
wanting to know
why you missed work.

I don’t miss your indifference,
the way you sat at the computer
with your back to me
when I told you
I was leaving,
or how quickly
I became
a Facebook status.

 

Why Lester Duncan Drinks by Curtis Dunlap

It’s hard to stop drinking
when you find a pint of vodka
under your pillow at night.
That conniving wife of mine
wants to keep me drunk.
Every time I toss out a bottle,
she buys another one and
conveniently places it
where I can find it.

As long as I’m pegged a drunkard
no one will blame her when
she leaves me.

She likes talking to that
fat tax man in town.
I figure she’s got her sights
set on him.
He’s rich, got four cars, a fine house,
and a bad heart.
Well, God Bless ’em and
good riddance to the both of them.
Hell,
she’ll probably stick fried chicken
under his pillow.