Poems by Robert Smith

Inside Bo's Camaro

Bo says he prefers a Red 75 Camaro
down in Tulsa, "Keep a light foot on the gas."
I'm curious how it rises up,
grabs a toe hold then releases.

I posit, "Maybe change the dark matter--
so many, so certain, a wellspring
of genus and species."

Bo says we can't survive on
weak binders. He'll rebuild them
along with a 75 tri power two barrel…
"but you never know
with an old 8 banger!" prompts Bo.

So I pose this question:
"Hey Bo, was the origin created
to bring on a new union
or was the intent recalibration?"

"A dual quad on a C-Mer
makes the big difference," says Bo.

 

Tuesday Night

Here in Pierre's Bistro,
the mudspot where we masculines hang,
singular buddies hold till the end.
Here we bring all manner of cloth to the table--
e-sports to espn, the back and a forth,
a P-Bistro sandwich—
no one the worse for wear. 

But "global warming" contains spillage.
Few noticed at first, then a brouhaha,
Gaston and I on trial for a snow job,
no getting out of the rain. 

Odd how a careening separation can occur-
there you are close as buttons--enter a hoax,
believable as vampires, and quod erat
demonstrandum, scintillating pyrotechnics.

To some we were a plot against democracy,
to others, a taste of the American ideal.
Follow the birdie and snapple goes the shutter,
truth cloaked in dark cognition,
ideals show in signed aspects--

But take a look from a distance.
There we'll be--at Pierre's,
buddies at the base,
broccoli salad on our radar,
"they say it's good for you man but it's not," --
our hook diverted shift from football Sunday.

Time can bring miracles.