Saturday, May 18, 2013

Old Pay Stubs by Jasen Sousa


Old Pay Stubs

"For DZ"

By Jasen Sousa 

Evenings after still frozen dinners

and days before his envelope would be flung

to him like a bone, across a cigarette scarred

wooden break room table, he would stooper in his damp

work clothes.


Boot laces tied tightly around his tender ankles,

socks folded back hair on his legs

in ways it was not meant to be bent,

knees pressed against his pants

like a child's face to a window on a misting Saturday.



There were no dishes to scrape clean, no

trash, but a waste basket filled with wrinkled

receipts that angered him every time

he walked by. 


He remembered it all like he needed

to be back the next morning at 7:00 A.M.

as he slept uncomfortably nude on top

of tucked-in sheets starring at a tie which hung

over the back of a chair swaying like a clock pendulum

from an after midnight May breeze. 

Friday, January 18, 2013

Nature's Manual Poem by Jasen Sousa (For My Aunt)


Nature's Manual

 

 

An empty pair of slippers rests

next to the leg of an empty chair.  A newly

started book, spine arched at a curious

angle by the window.  Steam from near-by simmering coffee

dissipates as shadows nap underneath bridges waiting

to dance with sunrise. 

 

Blinking traffic lights sway in shallow puddles

without anyone else on the road to interfere.  A long

winter, almost over, camping mounds of stubborn snow

still not fully melted.  Slopping branches of leafless

sycamore trees tap your shoulders,

eager for a reunion. 

 

Cafes in the local square have shut down

for the evening, unaware of what you had left to spend.  You gaze

through a toy store window, drawn to trains

that never stop traveling, drawn

to a smirking clown who makes you forget

you ever aged at all.

 

It is getting late and you hear your parents

calling you home.  They have neatly tucked in

your chair, put away your slippers, and left a dim light

on in your room, just bright enough for you to see

what is necessary when you arrive.

 

 

 

And when you awake in spring

you will be welcomed by wondering skies

painted auburn by hands no longer restricted

 
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