They say by Matt Galletta

They say
talent skips a generation.

I suspect sometimes
it passes over
entire families.

Two Poems by Matt Galletta

The Hunted

I see blood
speckled
on the bathroom floor
and sink,

big, fat
drops of it,

as though
a crime
has been
committed here,

a grisly
murder.

As though
there’s a
battered corpse
in the bathtub,
just waiting for me
to pull back
the shower curtain
and discover it.

But the brown-black
splatter
is actually
henna
hair dye,

my wife’s
chosen weapon
in her fight against
the increasing amount
of gray
she sees
in the mirror,

a war
being waged
on my head
as well,

and I realize:

serial killer
or premature gray,

something
is hunting us
in our
own home.

____________

English is useless

How are we
supposed to express
the profound,
the complex,
the revelatory,

when there’s no word
for even
the simple satisfaction
and reassurance
of two slices of
peanut butter toast
on a drunk Thursday night?

Two poems by Matt Galletta

The Hunted

I see blood
speckled
on the bathroom floor
and sink,

big, fat
drops of it,

as though
a crime
has been
committed here,

a grisly
murder.

As though
there’s a
battered corpse
in the bathtub,
just waiting for me
to pull back
the shower curtain
and discover it.

But the brown-black
splatter
is actually
henna
hair dye,

my wife’s
chosen weapon
in her fight against
the increasing amount
of gray
she sees
in the mirror,

a war
being waged
on my head
as well,

and I realize:

serial killer
or premature gray,

something
is hunting us
in our
own home.

************

Catcher by Matt Galletta

Holden didn’t think it through,
not all the way.

Anything can wear on you
if you do it long enough.

Truck drivers,
teachers,
waiters —

sure,

but even
the catcher
in the rye
must get tired
after a while.

Doing the same thing
all day long,
don’t tell me
the temptation wouldn’t be there
now and then
to let just one
of the little bastards
go over
the edge.