S. Thomas Summers

Misplaced Volume of American Poetry

Thanks to Mr. Raab

The ominous silence of furniture:
dining room chairs play
poker beneath the dim

glow of the chandelier.
Each visage – stiff as time.
I dare not retrieve the book

I’ve left on the table,
ruffle the dealer’s bluff. Heavy
hush strangles iris stems rising

from a slender vase. Even the porcelain
Labrador perks its ears against
the quiet, snarls as the wood floors

creak beneath my feet like old
bones. Emily and Walt will bed
together, weather the night without me.

Playing with a Desktop Globe

If I smudge France with a fingerprint,
would a chubby digit descend from heaven,
squash the Eiffel Tower? If I spin it too fast

would the pyramids fly into space
like chipped teeth, transforming Tut’s
deserts into a set of toothless gums?

And if I abruptly stop its swirl, would Italy
finally swing westward, kick Spain in the ass?

Today, I’ll carry it outside, place it near
the tulips chasing the rail fence.
The next time it storms, rain drops,
the size of Volkswagens, will pelt
a hemisphere, pin a white moth’s wet

wings to Canada; Quebec will never see
the sun again. I’ll quickly brew a pot
of coffee, listen to Nat King Cole sing
Unforgettable. You, behind the easel

propped on the kitchen table - dragons
and butterflies slide from your
brush. Armageddon should be so pleasant.

Rather It Should Shine

Originally, I wanted
this poem to sing,

but I cut
out its tongue,

tossed it wet
on the grass, a fallen

leaf. Instead, I
twisted the poem's

ink into a wick, set
it on a fence

post under
the apple tree.

Even
in this rain

it burns -
bright, warm.