Poetry by David Oates from Drunken Robins
Grand Ole Opry
from the dark, camera flashes
lightning bugs
after communion
he finds a bit of meat
between his teeth
April, 3 AM,
up with the baby again
first birdsong
holding tiny frog in her hands
look on six-year-old’s face
mountain drive—
winding and dipping,
climbing and braking, then
oh, God, a sign
“Hill”
little boy’s command
hundreds of plastic soldiers—
only a few stand
purple clematis
around the mailbox
mailman eyes bumblebees
vacant lot—
in the grass,
small pecans
such break dancers!
even the pickpocket
stops to watch
bare kudzu vines swallow the tree
from under them, pale spring leaves
waiting for job interview
he buffs his shoes
on the back of his pants
the runoff
pauses—
icicles
winter street
tires rip slush
an hour and a half
before gallery opening
the artist agonizes
over shoes
summer day,
reading with my six-year-old
faint smell of chlorine
my friend who was a butcher
on his hands, old white lines
new dogwood flowers,
small, green, like unripe fruit
delicately upcurved
ballet teacher coaching from the wings,
along with her sharp whispers
her own feet cross, point, cross
sycamore in winter sun
a pretty fat girl
lifts her arms
off the freeway
among gas and burger joints
bird’s call
Sunday dinner at the Nu-Wray Inn
antique music box announces meal
then tinkle of iced-tea spoons
mom at home, two kids
enjoys long chat with telemarketer—
time for a vacation