Dicky
My Uncle barged into my
bedroom
too early on a Saturday
morning, waving a sheet of paper
in his hand: “What is this?” he
demanded. “Who is this ‘Richard —-?'”
Omg.
Dicky.
I had hit him
with my car, while playing “chicken”
in the parking lot of the High School.
He had gone onto the
hood, into the windshield, and
over the roof.
I watched him, through the
rearview mirror, drop
as if out of the sky.
I had never liked the guy.
He lay on the asphalt
in a heap:
I began to apologize, solicitous as
a best friend;
he gave me a bitter look
of reproach and
slowly stood, and
began, thank god, to walk, like
a damaged old man with
a limp, toward the school…
“We are being sued for twenty thousand
dollars!” my Uncle shouted.
That fucking Dicky–
his father was a lawyer.
69 and Counting
I am 69 years old today, an
auspicious number, ‘ey?
Did not think I’d see 28 but
my number never called–
the luck of the draw, that’s
all–some prudence thrown
in, though I put myself in
position to die many times
through car accidents or
being in places black-outs’
brought me too…
The turn of the cards or the
Dealer? I don’t know.
A little of both, maybe.
What I Want
is human warmth, poetry, and
art. Fuck money–not my master
any more! Fuck lust–I seek the
end of desire: I stamp on the
embers before the flame ignites.
Fuck excitement–I’ve thought new
neuronal channels to keep endorphins
tamed. I’ve died to the frenetic life.
I’ve rejected the ice-cold motherfuckers
of the world.
©2023 Wayne F. Burke All rights reserved.
Wayne F. Burke’s poetry and prose have been widely published in print and online (including in CAJUN MUTT). He is the author of 8 published full-length poetry collections, one short story collection, and two works of nonfiction. He lives in Vermont (USA).