Poems
by Richard
LeDue
The View From My Front Seat
A whisky bottle passed around by four guys
in a Wal-Mart parking lot
reminds me of those Saturday nights
drinking with no one except dead singers
and feeling the hangover the next morning
was like an old friend,
and because I had the walls holding up my reputation,
I thought I was safe
from what the empty bottles drink from us.
Outdated Immortality
A dead fiddler lives,
finding outdated immortality
on a CD that’s never been dropped
on the floor between beers
at 1 AM,
and he also gives life back to my grandmother,
drinking her beer on another Sunday afternoon
listening to fiddle music on her radio,
even if only until the song ends.
Coffee After 2 PM
Dying seems like a dead uncle
I never met
and haven’t thought about in years,
especially during a wide awake midnight,
when darkness passes
through the window with the confidence
of another wasted sunny afternoon
spent with childhood friends
who are damned to become memories
lost underneath credit card bills,
diets printed from the internet
by a doctor more concerned
about my cholesterol than my soul,
and that barking dog could be the devil
or just another unloved animal,
leaving sleep unable to sleep,
wondering if it’s related to death
like a distant cousin (twice removed)
or if it’s just my eyes needing to close,
desperate to see anything
beyond another day.
