Going Home by Pris Campbell

 

The old man walks down
the center line of Jenson Boulevard
in his best suit, shoes spit-shined.
Cars honk.
Curses abound –
get out of the road you crazy fool!

A truck driver pulls over,
tries to guide him to the sidewalk,
only to be whacked by the old man’s cane.

Cell phone users gather.
Some call 911. Others record in case he’s hit.
They’ll have the video for the evening news.

The old man doesn’t understand the ruckus.
Mother will be waiting for him,
with milk and cookies.
He doesn’t want her to worry.

Two cops finally pull up, take him
by each arm, check the bracelet
on his left wrist, load him into their car.

A woman in white wrings her hands
when they park beside a squat,
institutionalized building. She takes
him to a small room, tells him he’s home.

The sun knows and the moon knows
this isn’t home. Home is somewhere
along that big road outside.
He’s determined to find it.

He’ll try again the next time
a door is left open.

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For a Moment by Pris Campbell

 

I wake from a dream,
fingernails dug into his back,
his mouth hard on mine,
remembering those days that were
siphoned away and won’t return
in this lifetime.

I was the one to leave,
so why the crocodile tears now?

One of his emails popped up
in an old folder yesterday
and, for a moment, I forgot he was dead,
doctors exhausted from attempts
at a heart restart and I want to answer
the email all over again just
like when I called mother’s old number
until the line went silent,
telling her secrets I never
could utter when still alive.

____________

Pris Campbell has been mostly housebound with ME/CFS since 1990 so writes her poems to escape into the world again. In addition to numerous journals, she has published seven chaps/books of free verse poetry and, most recently, her first romantic tanka book, Squall Line on the Horizon, through Nixes Mate Press. She makes her home with her husband in the Greater West Palm Beach, across the waterway from where Trump twitters in his southern White House.

Heading South by Pris Campbell

 

Polar caps float past the White House.
Men and women leap from the roof
onto rowboats, purloined sailboats,
documents about the myth
of global warning shredded quickly.

Security Guards cling to the top
of the Empire State Building.
They wait for a large piece of debris
to float by before they jump,
hoping to cling, Titanic style,
until the lifeboats come back
to get them.

The Statue of Liberty sighs in sorrow,
takes a deep breath before the tides
overcome her.

At the docks, immigrants, already loaded
for deportation, let loose the dock lines,
pick up floating men and women of all colors,
the elderly, women from rape camps,
Gay couples separated, now united again,
the homeless, lost children.

They add poets and artists to document
this shifting New Age, head south
with a crude map to where word
has spread that Atlantis, long sunk,
has risen again just for this day in history.

Invasions by Pris Campbell

 

Pearl long-legs her way
through her teens in her
la de da, Jesus Saves,
southern hometown.
She doesn’t fit into
the who said what or
who got drunk world
of her classmates,
reads Sartre in her spare time, recites
King’s not yet come true dream
to her bored cats, fingers
the old McGovern pin bought
at a pawn shop. She weeps
over stories of the KKK
emerged again, Muslim
children given fake deportation
papers by school bullies
for a laugh.

She sits on soft pine needles
in the woods behind her house,
inhales silence, wishes
Tonto, (looking like Johnny Depp
would show up with Silver,
dangling the Lone Ranger’s mask
from his beckoning finger,
Silver pawned for Santa’s old sleigh
and his back-up group of reindeer,
lasers stashed in the candy bags in back.

They could flash red across the sky
each night, vaporizing weapons
and rescuing the disenfranchised,
their light so bright people would gaze
in wonder, reporting UFO invasions
or even the second coming.

Advance Notice by Pris Campbell

Coins in your eyes,
unwritten ‘forgive me’ notes
embedded into your fingertips,
the ladies in black prepare you.

This is your eulogy,
my second ex, writ in advance.

I touch my hand to my breastbone
where blood flowed, staining
the sidewalk, when you left me
for the gal with peter pan hair
and the saucy behind.

My chest is dry now.
The sidewalk is dry.
My eyes are dry.

A flicker of sea air
drifts past, carries away
the  remaining remnants
of sails raised, boat keening,
dolphins tracking our
every maneuver.

Hussy Moon by Pris Campbell

That hussy moon peeks
into hotel windows,
steamed up cars, locked offices,
snaps photos of adulterous men
touching bared thighs,
speaking of promised roses
and days that will never arrive.

You told me about her.
Said her ass was too big,
when undressed, to appeal,
that her breath smelled of garlic
when you kissed.

You hoped the moon
would entice me to forgive,
make me leap into your arms,
rub salve into disappointment, but

already the moon has my photo, too.

haiku by Pris Campbell

 

closing time
old men gulp down
their dreams