Bob Slaymaker
THE BEACH TOWEL
Under this comforter my wife and I rest,
beneath the comforter her brown beach towel
covering her from head to toe.
She's slept this way for years, she says,
this Linus blanket for extra warmth
and, I suppose, for extra love.
Lying beside her, I say,
"Take that damn towel off.
You're thirty-eight years old, for God's sake.
You've got me, why do you need
that stupid towel?"
She keeps it on her, snuggling happily,
ignoring what I said.
I say, "Why do you need that towel?
You've got me. You act like a child
with that thing. C'mon, take it off."
She turns over, tightly clutching
her warm brown towel.
I try pulling it off her.
She grips it tightly.
I pull really, really hard.
She holds on.
Tired of struggling,
I move under the towel and into her arms.
I kiss her eyelid.
The hell with it, I think.
You'll just have to share her with this stupid towel.
I hold her close,
feeling so good in her arms, in her life.
She's my best friend, and I'll be with her forever.
Now she moves deeper into our embrace,
and the brown towel, like a magic carpet,
floats out from under the comforter
and flies away.
DANCING WITH THE SUN
She moves fluidly, a flock of sparrows
dipping and darting across the sky
She exudes the elegant strength of a lioness.
Powerfully she grips the earth beneath her--
hurls herself into a turn;
she spins perfectly, halts, then, without waver,
holds her stance with a smile
But around her ankles, secured by gold locks,
hang two heavy chains: religion,
and what believing in god brings:
never soaring on her own--unfettered, sun-high
WHY #39
Hold me! Don't hold me!
Hold me! Don't hold me!
Hold me! Don't hold me!
Hey, why are you leaving?
CABDRIVER IN THE CITY OF THIEVES
For twelve-hour shifts, six days a week,
I'm chained to this two-ton yellow warrior,
wielding it as a weapon when I must
to earn my daily bread.
I threaten pedestrians and bicyclists
with its steel bulk, pushing them aside
to quickly deliver my moneyed passengers.
It's bully or starve in this city of thieves,
the smaller the thief the more violence
required to eke out a living.
This morning, I rammed my two tons through a crosswalk,
scattering a pedestrian family, a bicyclist.
The bicyclist called me a "fucking bully,"
a "motherfucking coward,"
for using my two tons like a battering ram.
I jumped out, threatened him with my crowbar.
After I rode off, I got in and raced to the light,
searching for my next fare.
For a moment, I flashed back to the bicyclist,
the crosswalk, the pedestrian family.
Then I gunned it as the light turned green,
thinking, you didn't create this city,
its game or kill or be killed.
OUT OF DARKNESS
The light of truth
seems harsh at first
to those not used
to its brilliance.