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.

 

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