Charles Webb
Silent Letters
Treacherous as trap door spiders, They ambush children’s innocence. “Why is there g h in light? It isn’t fair!” Buddha declared the world illusory As the p sound in psyche. Sartre Said the same
Reservations Confirmed
The ticket settles on my desk: a paper tongue Pronouncing “Go away;” a flattened seed From which a thousand-mile leap through the air can grow. It’s pure potential: a vacation-to-be The way an apple
Suitcase
Its silver clasp looks like a man grasping His hands above his head in victory; The latches, like twin hatchbacks headed away. There are no wheels, just four steel nipples for sliding. A hexagonal
Enthusiasm
“Don’t overdo it,” Dad yelled, watching me Play shortstop, collect stamps and shells, Roll on the grass laughing until I peed my pants. “Screw him,” I said, and grabbed every cowry I could find,
Blind
It’s okay if the world goes with Venetian; Who cares what Italians don’t see? Or with Man’s Bluff (a temporary problem Healed by shrieks and cheating) or with date: Three hours of squirming repaid
Post-Vacation Tristesse
The Jumbo Jet has barely shuddered off The ground, and I’m depressed. My scuba mask And fins, my fly rod and beach hat Crush each other in an overhead locker Dark as the bedroom
The Wife of the Mind
Sharecroppers’ child, she was more schooled In slaughtering pigs and coaxing corn out of The ground than in the laws of Math, the rules Of Grammar. Seventeen, she fell in love With the senior
Giant Fungus
40-acre growth found in Michigan. – The Los Angeles Times The sky is full of ruddy ducks And widgeon’s, mockingbirds, Bees, bats, swallowtails, Dragonflies, and great horned owls. The land below teems with elands
The Death Of Santa Claus
He’s had the chest pains for weeks, But doctors don’t make house Calls to the North Pole, He’s let his Blue Cross lapse, Blood tests make him faint, Hospital gown always flap Open, waiting