Poems by Steven M. Smith

 

After Watching the Opening Scene of Hitchcock’s Rear Window
on YouTube and Imagining an Opening Scene to a Hitchcock Directed Sequel

Jefferies’ two broken legs have long since healed.
He’s back on his feet—pacing his upper-level
apartment.  Did he do the right thing after
the incident—quitting his job as a photojournalist?
Pawning his camera with its telephoto lens? 
He picks up an old copy of Long-Gone Lisa’s
Harper’s Bazaar that he uses as a fly swatter—
tries to recall Long-Gone Lisa in her $1,100 dress—
but nothing.  He drags his feet to the wall hook
near the door—removes the binoculars. . . .
At his rear window, he opens the webby shade.
The late spring sun makes a cameo appearance
then slips away down a mysterious alley of clouds.
In one of the apartments across the renovated courtyard,
he sees a child leaning forward in a wheelchair.  Her face
at her rear window.  She’s giggling, watching several children
chasing spastic squirrels in the courtyard below.
When Jefferies presses the binoculars to his eyes,
he sighs with boredom so thick one would need
a butcher’s saw to dismember it—he spies
a middle-aged man.  Heavyset.  Balding.  Pudgy cheeks.
Dark suit and tie.  The man looks familiar—something
about playing a piano or winding a clock perhaps.  But he
can’t quite place him.  The man is in the courtyard tossing
peanuts he picks from his jacket pocket—egging on
the squirrels that are egging on the children—
and, at least for now, as Jefferies scans the courtyard,
not a crazed gull or crow . . . or angry wife killer
salesman . . . or maniacal motel owner . . . in focus.

 

Curlyville

            in memory of Jerome Lester Horwitz, 1903 – 1952                          

My wife insists
the place doesn’t exist.
Oh, but it does, I tell her. 
We’ve all been there,
often.  Let me explain. 
It’s everywhere—yet
nowhere.  We don’t go there:
it comes to us.  For instance, we might bend
to tie our shoes, and when we straighten
up again, it’s there: see, our vision blurs—
just for a moment—and the world
jitters to a stop and jolts in reverse.
We might sense something like the blade
of a hand saw being yanked across our scalp
or something like our head being squeezed
in a letterpress.  Our teeth might clatter incessantly
before we expel a “woo-woo—woo-woo-woo-woo-woo!” 
Then we suddenly lose our balance.
Our eyes clamp shut as if poked
with a peace sign of fingers.  Incredible sunrises
sparkle, sputter, and pop as our eyelids slip
from the heels of our hands and rattle open
like over-tightened window shades—
And we’re there! 
Just like that—we’re there!

My wife squints, sighs, and frowns.  Then she places
her palm—ever so gently—on my forehead.

 

Another Attack on Humorous Poetry Thwarted

Agents from the Bureau of Humorous Accessible Poetry (BOHAP)
did it again—they stymied another attack on playful verse.
According to BOHAP sources, this time a splinter group from
Critics Against Risible Poetry (CARP) enlisted an undercover
BOHAP agent disguised as an undergrad—a stereotyped Goody
Two-Shoes in penny loafers, pixie cut, flawless skin the texture of
almond milk.  No tattoos.  No artificial nails.  No false eyelashes. 
Her braces could blind in a well-lit room.  Her ankle-length skirt and
her knit turtleneck with cartoon images of panting poodles barked
submissiveness.  A 4.0 literature scholar as supercilious as all twenty
volumes of The Oxford English Dictionary. The critics, two men
and two women, met her at a seamy motel. Outside, a vacancy sign
oozed neon the color of a skin rash. Inside, crusty drapes stained
with bodily fluids. Nightstands scarred from sadistic cigarettes.
Queen beds with screaming springs and roughed up headboards.
Scratched flat screen TV with a sequin handbag of sleazy channels.
Details are still sketchy, but we do know a vanilla-scented manila
envelope was passed.  Inside were copies of a ticking poem—a
ticking poem generated by sophisticated software.  A ticking poem
designed to hurl shell fragments of somber literary devices
and gloomy ambiguity upon detonation by discussion—maiming the
comical thinking skills of workshop participants. Ultimately
rendering any funny poems funereal. The poem never made it to its
workshop destination. The undercover agent immediately exited the
premises and handed the envelope over to her team.  Two days later
BOHAP agents confronted the suspects carrying black aluminum
attaché cases, contents unknown, as they emerged from the motel.
The suspects were squirming with bedbug bites and chanting,
“Poetry is NOT amusing!”