Poems
by R. Gerry
Fabian
You Deflagrate Me
It is no third degree burn;
more like a fluid flash singe.
It is two steps above frightening.
Throwing away caution,
like fixated fascination,
I move closer to the flame.
Just past midnight,
with the Fahrenheit simmering,
I now comprehend
that incendiary promises
can be reciprocal.
Brussel Sprouts and Fresh Breath
“I’m not eating the damn things.”
“You’ll sit there until you do
and watch your language or
I’ll wash your mouth out with soap.”
I know the taste of soap well.
Ivory – bath size.
Stuck in my mouth
and forced to bite down.
Just awful
and lingering.
Adding water only
made it worse.
I’m seventy-five now.
I’m still not eating the damn things
but I do watch my language
whenever I sense the presence
of bar soap.
Avoiding Amalgamation
Like blinding sunlight
hitting the windshield,
something more is apparent;
it is too obvious to be ignored.
Squinting needs to be remedied.
Pull down the visor or
reach for sunglasses.
Proceed with caution.
The urge to drive through it
is immediate.
Hold strong.
The sun can be a fickle mistress
and too much, too soon
can leave nasty burns.
