Poems
by Diane
Webster
Pocket Bulge
The bulging pocket
demands
all eyes stare at it
and imagine
what the shape suggests.
Cell phone?
Chewing tobacco?
Wallet?
Keys?
Like Braille fingers
the brain puzzles over
images similar but not,
contours disguised,
outlines jumbled
like a mugger’s face
to a herd of witnesses
they all see something
different.
Snowman Cousins
The sand snowman crumbles
onto the shoreline like a cousin
made of snow under sunshine.
Grain by grain it erodes,
flakes off, rejoins its family
baking beneath the sun,
particles run back and forth
with frothy waves
blowing in like snow,
rolling out like melt.
The Wake
After my life passes
across yours, my wake
calms and disappears
back into the waters
from which I came
as if I never existed.
Cemetery Everyone
Tombstones line up on both sides
of the dirt road like empty chairs
set around the dining room table
awaiting the call that all is ready.
People dash forward to pull
chairs back and occupy their place
at the long table winding
through the cemetery with everyone
seated in anticipation.
Naughty
Knot never
unties
or not a knot
it would be
naught.
