Five Poems
by Diane
Webster
Worn Beneath
He wears a T-shirt blurred
beneath his white dress shirt
where I must stifle
the urge to lay hands on him
to iron the wrinkles into clearer vision
like peering into a store window
while cupping my hands around my eyes
to block out light to see
what’s inside hoping
no one looks out
where I am looking in.
Maybe he’s a superman-wanna-be
trying to proclaim and hide
his mild-mannered, super-heroic
identity worn beneath his outside shirt
and over his shivering skin
like the face we show
opposite to ourselves inside
instead of a plain white shirt
no one notices
unless we wear a logo T-shirt
beneath.
Night Zigzags
Competitive moth racers
train a lifetime
to spy the brightest shine
on wing-flapping night zigzags
practicing on lesser brilliances
like 40-watt porch lights
that jab headaches
onto moth heads pretending
to be bulls charging a red flag
and if the moth alights a rest,
singed wings shake dust motes
like tiny snowflakes seen
only in the yard light.
But then it’s there…the Light,
splendid luminescence of night
so awestruck
the moth forgets its flight.
Wings freeze into a glide
so the moths legs can hug
the orb like a returned loved one
with no shadows between the two
only heat caressing into high degrees
like turbulence or palpitations
Until the moth circles in a whirlpool
in a spiral fanatic, frantic
from victory to demise.
A farmer stops at the metal gate
and ratchets or unratchets metal
against metal as the gate screeches
like a bull elk’s bugle
from the mountain top
descending to valley ears
where all eyes search for the source
in binocular sweeps.
A night stalker leans
against the streetlight’s pole
where the glowing globe
no longer pours a safe haven
for pedestrians to breathe.
A woman’s screams
scratch fingernails
down blackened window panes
like a falcon’s prey
taloned in claws
screeching echoes
down the street where all eyes
see no evil, hear no evil,
speak no evil.
Snow Pray
Melted snow expands
across the road
warmer than
snow-piled shoulders;
seeking dryness, evaporation;
praying skyward for reincarnation
as spring rain
or thunderous hailstorm
or savored until winter
again a snowflake.
Police Presence
The first police car doesn’t roar past
with speed, lights and siren.
Neither does the second nor the third –
silent, no need to hurry,
whatever happened already happened.
We neighbors stare out doors,
wander out to the street,
pretend to check mailboxes – empty,
empty and silent two doors down
with idling police cars patient
for a real emergency where they can be loud.
Quiet – dead quiet? No ambulance though.
A silver pickup slithers by a second time
and skulks around the road behind,
circles again with a big, bearded man driving.
Should I write down the license plate number?
Do criminals return to the scene of the crime?
One police car leaves, then a second.
Courage or curiosity wins;
I’m a little girl hoping the boy she likes
is playing outside, I walk down the street.
The remaining police car breathes
sound out the muffler
Gravel crunches beneath my shoes, loud today.
Mike hears me and steps around the house.
Everyone is okay; all is fine – sort of.
A neighbor entered his yard and played
chain saw massacre to his tree
because its leaves clog her yard
in the fall; it obstructs her view
of Mike’s front door so three cops had to see,
and the guy in the silver pickup
drives by again, stares right at me
like if I talk, he’ll be back to kill me.
