Ron Lavalette

Getting It In Writing

Danny B. initials the dust

of the librarys basement window

makes his mark inside a heart with

his favorite girlfriends initials, pierces

 

his full and dusty heart with an arrow,

with angled feathers and a very serious

point; and despite all the books and

periodicals the institution offers, nothing

 

means more than these four letters

because Danny knows that tonight

after the slow dance, walking her home

in the dark under the feeble streetlight

 

he can stop and point to the window,

point to his dusty handiwork and hope

she overlooks the crack in the glass

and the fact that several other windows

 

all bear similar artifacts: his name

in dust in identically shafted hearts,

 

and his former girlfriends initials.

 

The girls not blind, she sees it all

 

but doesnt care; she doesnt care

the windows cracked, doesnt care

that half a quivers love is spent

on half a dozen other dusty panes.

 

She lets him make a pass, lets him

kiss her under the blazing streetlight,

and when the dust has settled she

goes back home, cracks a notebook, 

 

fills a dozen empty pages with

Mrs Dan, Mrs Daniel, Mrs Danny B.

 

 

Grace

Thank you, father, for all that hash when I was

just a high schoolboy;  and for all those girls,

their cute little pink feet and silver toe rings 

up on the dashboard, Stones on the radio,

calico dresses in the wind, tanned legs, hot 

nights, warm flesh, and all those summer 

sunstruck mornings waking up with no idea 

whose house I was in, whose bed,

and not a seconds thought about how it

only Tuesday, smoky and unknowable.

Thanks for the moon reflected in windshield 

raindrops, and for midnight mushrooms,

Day-Glo under blacklight, mescaline boogie,

acid rock,  and acid.  But mostly thank you 

for 68: Danny Riley and his floral necktie 

finishing up his student teaching, 

smiling and handing me books, saying 

Oh man, you should read some Ginsberg, or  

Brautigan, maybe.  No; here, I got it.

For you, Ferlinghetti.

 

 

Wrong Hands

 

He doesnt know how he let his hands

do the things his hands had done:

casually thrown away a wedding ring,

made a fist and used it, ransacked a 

complete strangers home, plunged 

a needle, pulled a trigger. 

                                    Its like they 

were someone elses hands; like they

never opened a book, never taken an

oath, never tucked a little girl into bed,

or stroked her hair.

                            Now, everything

had slipped away from him, left him

predictably alone, completely

empty-handed.

 

Ron. Lavalette is primarily a poet living in Vermont's Northeast Kingdom, land of the fur-bearing lake trout and the bilingual stop sign. He has been widely published, both online and in print.  A reasonable sample of his published work can be found at EGGS OVER TOKYO.

Posted on May 14, 2015 .