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that sinister petting zoo
by Gabriel RicardMy next-door neighbor feels very strongly
that the monsters he’s building in his living room
will make up for any social problems he’s been having.
He wants monumental fame and steady fortune.
Or if not that then to at least jostle the eyes
of a long Saturday night spent using a French bible
to learn the best parts of the language.
I don’t argue with him.
I get his mail whenever he’s in Kentucky on business,
and I keep every postcard he sends me out of pure fear.
Fear might not be the right word. I’m just not quite up
to the task of why these are the only people
who remember me when Christmas comes around,
and hipster atheists chow down on steroids
before heading out with baseball bats and plastic rabbit ears.
I don’t even have the energy to deal with
the old man who works at the store
where I buy my cigarettes and dread the sound
of twenty slot machines winning fifteen cents at once.
He gets cute if I happen to buy beer and NyQuil together.
I could probably shop at a different shoddy landmark,
if I had a dollar for every time he told me I was going to Hell
for walking into the store with my hands in my pockets.
I can only speculate on what he thinks I’m up to.
My other next-door neighbors are always taking in
young runaways. I see them leave the house the next morning.
I’m drinking my coffee and wondering if 9:30 is a weird time
to finally look for my bed under all the typewriters
some tall stranger has been leaving at my front door for weeks.
They go in with all kinds of tattered problems and handmade tattoos.
They leave with a fresh suit, a bad haircut, a pet dog and a weird limp.
Who knows what I would have thought of these things as a kid.
Then again
when I was a kid I wrote down everything in notebooks
and fell in love with older women constantly.
I kind of miss that.
My mood was a lot better back when everything
wasn’t so funny I have to force a coughing fit
to keep from laughing.
It’s not that I’m against laughing.
I just prefer to save it for the times when I go
out of town
and see some of the really weird stuff.
A good reaction is important.
The wrong one gets me killed all the time.
05/03/2011 Posted on 05/03/2011
Copyright © 2024 Gabriel Ricard
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Doreen Cavazza on 05/03/11 at 05:09 PM I really like the originality of this. You have a great imagination and it shines through here. The reading flows well and kept my interest. I enjoyed reading this very much. |
| Posted by Anita Mac on 05/04/11 at 11:44 PM Love this... Heh, and your neighbor sounds like my type. Awesome write, per usual. |
| Posted by Gregory O'Neill on 05/05/11 at 12:42 AM You have an ingenious documentorial style, the comparisons to earlier times, or different moments are rather capitvating...like the sudden urge to go for a joy ride. Delighted. G |
| Posted by Steve Michaels on 05/07/11 at 10:10 PM The title sucked me in. The first stanza glued me to the rest and this right here, huh, that was me as well: "Then again
when I was a kid I wrote down everything in notebooks
and fell in love with older women constantly." |
| Posted by Ken Harnisch on 05/10/11 at 05:46 PM "I could probably shop at a different shoddy landmark,
if I had a dollar for every time he told me I was going to Hell
for walking into the store with my hands in my pockets.
I can only speculate on what he thinks I’m up to."
And my own bank, which I've been patronizing for untold years, asks me to remove my baseball caps and sunglasses and the tellers look at me like your storekeeper every time i refuse...sometimes, Gabriel, your lines hit harder and truer than anyone's. This one did! |
| Posted by Morgan D Hafele on 05/23/11 at 10:53 AM the really weird stuff always seems to be that which is closest, that's not to say that you won't find it out of town. it's probably easier that way since that's when we're really looking for it. |
| Posted by Mo Couts on 06/01/11 at 07:43 PM Your imagination is priceless! As a kid, I'd have loved to read books you'd written. As an adult, I still agree. |
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