Saturday, January 1, 2011

Corey Cook


Five inches of snow fell three days ago, two inches
yesterday and three this afternoon. I scoop and heave
as snow-encrusted cars coast by. Scoop and heave

as snowmobiles whir across a patchwork of fields
stitched together by loose stonewalls and scraggy
saplings. Scoop and heave as the neighbors' dog

bounds about their backyard and mouths the snow.
A town truck wielding an orange plow passes by –
scraping and pushing in its own monotonous way.

-previously published at Pig In A Poke

A Final Visit With The Family Dog, For Riley

He waits at the window,smeared with slobber
and whines, the dooropens and he wails,

wags that tail-less rump,you collapse to your
knees, try to peta squirming torso, his rough

tongue rolls out, tries to lapup your laughs, you then
lie down on the oriental rug,he does the same, the two

of you facing, his headrests on your right palm,
his paws perch on your shoulders,you bury your face

in black, that dusty place,that dry place you came
so far to be blinded byand must now embrace.

-previously published in Dance Of My Hands

Jumbo Plastic Baby Face

is what the receipt reads,
the product: oversized

plastic gift bags. My wife,
Rachael, wraps, or bags

a baby gate, a bathtub
and clothes—prepares

to leave for her
friend’s baby shower

in Massachusetts. Before
bagging the clothes though

she holds each outfit up
for me to see, we smile

at each other, then walk hand
in hand to our bedroom.

Mud Season

I walk on the side of the road
as Winter’s sludge chokes
the sidewalk. It is a sunny day,
each warm gust a shove. I am on
my way to visit my grandmother,
on my way as a light blue Toyota
station wagon slows. Stops. It is
the mother of a boy I baby-sit. "Corey,
how is your grandmother?" she asks.
"Well…" I begin. "Oh, she’s well. What
great news" she replies. "She’s dying"
I say as I look down at my grey shoes.

-both poems previously published at ken*again

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