<div class="line">I’ve been dead for years, so this place suits me.</div>
<div class="line">Sixty thousand channels thanks to cable.</div>
<div class="line">Love the game room and those herbal teas.</div>
<div class="line">Everyone remembers Betty Grable.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">Sixty thousand channels thanks to cable.</div>
<div class="line">Sleep’s not a problem, we’re all deceased.</div>
<div class="line">Everyone remembers Betty Grable.</div>
<div class="line">Marilyn Monroe keeps asking for a priest.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">Sleep’s not a problem, we’re all deceased</div>
<div class="line">tucked in among a thousand souvenirs.</div>
<div class="line">Marilyn Monroe keeps asking for a priest.</div>
<div class="line">Frank Sinatra hums the music of the spheres.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">Tucked in among a thousand souvenirs,</div>
<div class="line">there’s room for clippings and my Betamax.</div>
<div class="line">Frank Sinatra hums the music of the spheres.</div>
<div class="line">Every afternoon I wax my Cadillacs.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">There’s room for clippings and my Betamax.</div>
<div class="line">The past is present like a golden key.</div>
<div class="line">Every afternoon I wax my Cadillacs.</div>
<div class="line">I’ve been dead for years, so this place suits me.</div><figure class="wp-block-audio"><audio controls src="https://admin.rattle.com/audio/KoertgeAfterlife.mp3"></audio></figure>

The Grass Ceiling

Happiness

The Afterlife

<div class="line">Henry James said he loved the words <em>summer afternoon</em>.</div>
<div class="line">Only suicidal snowmen think of a summer afternoon.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">And, only shady women throw out the line, <em>Babe,</em></div>
<div class="line">my Stroke of Midnight wants your Summer Afternoon.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">No wonder the moon sulks and broods. It’s an astronomical</div>
<div class="line">body, not a kitchen light left on one summer afternoon!</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">Astronomical it is, and affecting, that moon.</div>
<div class="line">It’s got me plunging toward a rhyme: summer afternoon.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">No influential figure, not love or unlove. Not even</div>
<div class="line">a shabby mini-mart. Nothing to mar a summer afternoon.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">Oh <em>Nothing</em>, with your No-Thing-ness—get lost, <em>Nada!</em></div>
<div class="line">Nothing can despoil this summer afternoon.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">Tedium before and boredom after. In between, “Maybe”</div>
<div class="line">and an urgent “Please” take up a summer afternoon.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">But what can they defend against? Back to <em>Nothing</em>.</div>
<div class="line">Bombs have fallen on summer afternoons.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">The sight of a mountaineer’s ice ax buried in a rest stop</div>
<div class="line">picnic table revives an ordinary summer afternoon.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">What ruins every outdoor meal? Ants, especially giant</div>
<div class="line">ants from outer space, some calm summer afternoon.</div><figure class="wp-block-audio"><audio controls src="https://admin.rattle.com/audio/LummisKoertgePicnic.mp3"></audio></figure>

My 88-Year-Old Mother-in-Law Decides to Make New Year’s Resolutions

Prompt Poem of the Month

Parking Meter

Picnic

<div class="line4">1</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">In grade school a girl who could draw</div>
<div class="line">guided my hand while I tried for a horse</div>
<div class="line">that resembled a horse.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">I didn’t mind that she was better at drawing.</div>
<div class="line">I could play shortstop and she couldn’t.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">I told my parents about her. They said, “Well,</div>
<div class="line">maybe she could draw blueprints.”</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">They were practical. Art was just short</div>
<div class="line">for Arthur. From school right to work.</div>
<div class="line">Like the thigh bone connected to some</div>
<div class="line">other bone.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">Everybody worked. All the time. My math</div>
<div class="line">teacher, Mr. Taylor, put on a white apron,</div>
<div class="line">a paper hat and handed ice cream cones</div>
<div class="line">across a counter all summer.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">My hometown wasn’t much, but one part</div>
<div class="line">of it was a real Christmas card: Miller’s pond</div>
<div class="line">froze over every winter and we could skate there.</div>
<div class="line">With a fire and everything.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">Mr. Taylor showed up with his littlest daughter.</div>
<div class="line">He was a really good skater. <span style="font-style: italic;">Graceful</span>.</div>
<div class="line">Not a word I’d say out loud then, but he was.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">My mother was there, just waiting for me</div>
<div class="line">and watching. When I sat down for a minute</div>
<div class="line">she said, “He’s been to Rome. Isn’t that</div>
<div class="line">something?”</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">How did he end up in a small town east</div>
<div class="line">of the Mississippi, a town that worshipped</div>
<div class="line">high school basketball and especially</div>
<div class="line">our skyscraper center who could score outside</div>
<div class="line">the paint, too?</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">I didn’t actually ask but my mom whispered,</div>
<div class="line">“Things don’t always work out, honey.”</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">I started to ride my bike by Mr. Taylor’s house.</div>
<div class="line">What things didn’t work out for him, the skater</div>
<div class="line">from Rome?</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">Sometimes he waved, sometimes not, probably</div>
<div class="line">lost in thought. I liked taking phrases like that</div>
<div class="line">apart:</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line"><span style="font-style: italic;">Thought</span> as a place someone could get lost</div>
<div class="line">in, like a national park, but with no bears.</div>
<div class="line">Not real ones, anyway.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">Once I saw his wife standing in a blow-up kiddy</div>
<div class="line">pool smoking a cigarette and crying, holding</div>
<div class="line">her house dress up around her knees.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">And then I’d think <span style="font-style: italic;">house dress house dress</span></div>
<div class="line"><span style="font-style: italic;">house dress</span> until it turned into somebody</div>
<div class="line">whispering in another language.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line4">2</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">Basketball was a language everybody understood.</div>
<div class="line">Jack, Marcus, and I listened to away games on</div>
<div class="line"> the radio and went to home games.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">We liked being at the high school where we’d</div>
<div class="line">end up. The halls were wide and didn’t smell</div>
<div class="line">like disinfectant so much.</div>
<div class="line">There were trophy cases. Famous graduates.</div>
<div class="line">Some not so famous who we could see every</div>
<div class="line">day behind a counter or fixing a car.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">Friday nights, the gym was a madhouse.</div>
<div class="line">Jack’s mom went to Mass every day and twice</div>
<div class="line">on Sunday, so he called the gym</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">Shrine of the Deadly Hook Shot because Terry</div>
<div class="line">Armstrong besides being six-ten was unstoppable</div>
<div class="line">with his left hand.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">The town was like a graveyard during home games.</div>
<div class="line">Even the cops and the firemen were there, hoping</div>
<div class="line">nobody called in, then taking it easy on the parties</div>
<div class="line">afterward.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">“Going to state,” everybody said. “Terry’ll win</div>
<div class="line">it for us. It’s his last year!”</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">Then the team went to Oak Park for the regionals.</div>
<div class="line">They looked big even on the radio. They outscored</div>
<div class="line">us, and outran us. Their center blocked shot after</div>
<div class="line">shot. We lost 102–68. And that was that.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line"><span style="font-style: italic;">Things don’t always work out.</span></div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">The old guys who drank coffee every morning</div>
<div class="line">at Gus’s dug a grave and pushed Terry into it.</div>
<div class="line">They called him a traitor and a coward and a</div>
<div class="line">fuck-up.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">He finished the year, graduated and got a job</div>
<div class="line">selling Oldsmobiles.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">My friends and I rode by the car lot, saw him</div>
<div class="line">standing around in a suit that belonged to a giant.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">Then Simic Motors put up a rim behind</div>
<div class="line">the service bays and a customer could go</div>
<div class="line">one-on-one with the star salesman.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">We watched Terry in hard-soled shoes</div>
<div class="line">handle fat guys at lunchtime, hitting from</div>
<div class="line">anywhere until one day he got into it</div>
<div class="line">under the basket and broke some guy’s nose</div>
<div class="line">with an elbow. A guy who did not drive off</div>
<div class="line">the lot in a new Rocket 88.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">After that, the backstop came down.</div>
<div class="line">Terry kind of melted into the town</div>
<div class="line">like everybody else who lived there</div>
<div class="line">and probably planned to die there.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">He married Marsha Noyse from Troy.</div>
<div class="line">They went to St. Louis for their honeymoon.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">Jack, Marcus, and I got together every night</div>
<div class="line">We roamed the town on our bikes, knew back</div>
<div class="line">streets and alleys.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">Terry’s house was our last stop because he shot</div>
<div class="line">100 free throws after dinner. One miss before</div>
<div class="line">he got to 100 and he’d start over.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">Almost dark, the sound the ball made</div>
<div class="line">dropping through the net so fast was like</div>
<div class="line">people whispering in church.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">If he saw us over there he didn’t let on,</div>
<div class="line">or maybe he liked spectators—three where</div>
<div class="line">there used to be hundreds.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">Once the ball bounced off the rim and,</div>
<div class="line">glowing like a planet, rolled out of the driveway</div>
<div class="line">and toward us,</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">“Little help,” he said finally. One of us tossed</div>
<div class="line">it to him. Marsha came out of the back door,</div>
<div class="line">holding a baby. She watched him start over.</div>
<div class="line">“What the fuck, Terry.” We looked at each other,</div>
<div class="line">me and Marcus and Jack I mean, and grinned.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">We said “What the fuck, Terry,” all the time</div>
<div class="line">for awhile. We’d stare at a giant cone from</div>
<div class="line">Dairy Delight and say it.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">A girl we knew would look at us and smile</div>
<div class="line">so we’d say it. Jack would make a circus</div>
<div class="line">catch in left field and we’d say it.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">Terry stopped shooting free throws.</div>
<div class="line">When we cruised by, we heard the baby crying</div>
<div class="line">and them arguing. So we didn’t want to say</div>
<div class="line">it anymore.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">Then one night there he was again. Marsha</div>
<div class="line">on the back steps with the kid on her lap,</div>
<div class="line">counting for Terry, waving the baby’s arms</div>
<div class="line">at one, two, twenty-two, forty-five.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">We counted, too. Not loud but we did it.</div>
<div class="line">“Don’t miss,” Jack whispered. Seventy-five,</div>
<div class="line">eighty-three.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">A wind pushed the trees around.</div>
<div class="line">Their shadows came for us, then stepped</div>
<div class="line">back. We held our breath at ninety-nine.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">Swish.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">Marsha stood up. Held out the baby, and Terry</div>
<div class="line">took it.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line">“See you guys,” he said without looking at us.</div>
<div class="line">The door closed behind them. The porch</div>
<div class="line">light went out.</div><figure class="wp-block-audio"><audio controls src="https://admin.rattle.com/audio/KoertgeWork.mp3"></audio></figure>

Fault Lines

The Disintegrated Man

Things and How They Work

<div class="line">Show us on the map where you often lurk.</div>
<div class="line">Don’t be afraid. It’s just the two of us.</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">Would a cigarette help? A soft drink?</div>
<div class="line">Start with the woodsman’s hut? These places</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">here and here and here—what are they called?</div>
<div class="line">Take your time. I can offer you money,</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">and a new identity. Why even hesitate?</div>
<div class="line">Look, this wristwatch belonged to my father.</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">It’s yours if you tell the truth.</div>
<div class="line">Those sites I asked you about earlier—</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">your favorite was Bridesmaid’s Dress.</div>
<div class="line">Don’t embarrass us both by pretending.</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">Name your most frequent visitor.</div>
<div class="line">That’s right. Now we’re getting somewhere.</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">Pretend I am young and innocent. Say to me</div>
<div class="line">exactly what you would say to her.</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">Do you think you can fool me? And we were</div>
<div class="line">getting along so well. I’ll ask another way.</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">This item of intimate apparel is called</div>
<div class="line">a galvanic bonnet-with-blue-cornflowers.</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">Put it on. Now point to Grandma’s house.</div><figure class="wp-block-audio"><audio controls src="https://admin.rattle.com/audio/KoertgeWolves.mp3"></audio></figure>

My Name Is Pedro

Spinach Can Send Emails Now, and Twitter Is in Disbeleaf

Because Wolves Are a Protected Species, This One Is Merely Interrogated

<div class="line">Isn’t there always a bird in the airport?</div>
<div class="line">Here’s one who got by without a passport,</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">surprising the uniformed TSA folks,</div>
<div class="line">and setting off a lazy series of jokes</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">about flying for free. This sparrow</div>
<div class="line">navigates the crowded, narrow</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">lanes that lead to the waiting 747s</div>
<div class="line">about to penetrate the local heavens.</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">We wait and watch and read</div>
<div class="line">and listen to the nearby child plead</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">with her parents to do something</div>
<div class="line">about the poor bird reappearing</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">now here now there but clearly</div>
<div class="line">scared and lost and probably</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">an orphan! The parents say, “Hmmm.”</div>
<div class="line">So the child, flushed and overcome,</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">takes matters into her own hands.</div>
<div class="line">Breathing hard, she stands and scans</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">the sun-shot, glassy cage we’re in.</div>
<div class="line">She’s off, nearly as fast as her twin—</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">the bird in question. At first it’s cute:</div>
<div class="line">a kind of game called LAX Pursuit:</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">she dodging totes and roller bags,</div>
<div class="line">the other swapping zigs for zags.</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">And then the bird careens into</div>
<div class="line">a wall resembling something blue</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">out there. The child’s scream</div>
<div class="line">shatters each vacation dream</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">and brings the dreamers to their</div>
<div class="line">feet to stand and mostly stare.</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">The cops show up. They close</div>
<div class="line">around the scene, blue shadows</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">who whisk the child away.</div>
<div class="line">The parents tag along in disarray.</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">Someone with a handkerchief</div>
<div class="line">disposes of the lost and brief-</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">lived bird. Magazines reopen,</div>
<div class="line">someone checks her suntan lotion.</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">The dreams return: a turquoise sky,</div>
<div class="line">drinks that stun, fish that fly.</div><figure class="wp-block-audio"><audio controls src="https://admin.rattle.com/audio/KoertgePay.mp3"></audio></figure>

The Man Kissed the Letter

The Choicest Parts

Two Weeks with Pay

<div class="line">Q: Do you ever borrow from other poets?</div>
<div class="line">A: Absolutely. It’s not larceny, it’s homage.</div>
<div class="line">Q: Critics have said your poems are like Frankenstein’s monster, disparate pieces badly sewn together that end up lurching out of the laboratory and eventually frightening a young woman brushing her blonde hair before going to bed. What’s your response?</div>
<div class="line">A: Say, that’s not bad. Would you mind repeating it slowly?</div>


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March 31, 2015Q & ARon Koertge

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March 31, 2015Q & ARon Koertge

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The Afterlife by Ron Koertge

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Because Wolves Are a Protected Species, This One Is Merely Interrogated by Ron Koertge