Two old poems

These have been rattling around my notebooks for a couple of years.

Ricochet Song

He couldn't sing so great.
The notes crackled up in his throat
And ricocheted out at odd angles,
Producing sounds
That seemed too eager to escape his body.

His cords could never find the right note,
Wavering back and forth,
Circling,
Pouncing and barely missing it.

The concentration needed to reign in his quavering voice
Would push his eyebrows together,
As if the muscles in his face
Could wrestle the sound onto the right tune.

When singing along with songs on the radio
His ears focus on the sounds
Made by the real singer,
And suddenly,
They could be his own.

When averaged with the notes of someone who can do it right
His errant vocalizations
Almost sound like the real thing.

But turn the speakers off
And you are left
With a busted bugle,

A guitar
That has been stepped on
And mangled.


Puppy Love

There he is at her door again,
Bloody and awkwardly nude.
He is a stupid piece of shit.

He knows precisely what will happen:
First, the door will open,
Spilling saturated amber light onto his face.

Then he will be invited inside,
Stomped on with soccer cleats,
And shoved back out the door.

Knobby knees over elbows,
He will tumble to the street
For everyone to see.

It was endearing the first time;
He is young and resilient
And not used to falling.

But after so many attempts
It is difficult to feel sorry for a dumb animal,
Incapable of self-preservation.

He stands slowly,
Ignoring the unsightly scrapes
Running up and down his sides

(The human body is not skilled
At regeneration.
Instead, scarring -

Lumpy misshapen tissue
Hastily covering cuts -
Is what it does best.)

And there he goes,
Left steadily in front of right,
Until he stands squarely in front of her door.

Can it still be called courage
If it is fueled by stupidity?

Heartbreak is not attractive,
As it is in films.
There is no beautiful and melancholy music,

No slow motion,
Only scorn
And embarrassment.

But there goes his arm,
Shoulder muscles tensing
To bring the entire limb

Into a raised position,
Closed fist poised
To reassert his presence

To someone who will
Calmly open his chest and slash
At something vulnerable inside of him.

And yet, inside the house,
It is so warm.
And he does not know any better.