WHAT MAKES IT WORK

What makes it work, in nearly
every good poem, is a word or phrase
or even a well-placed pause, that jumps
out and thumps you in the gut or
ignites a spark of recognition
or even lifts, however slightly,
the hair on your scalp.

Unfortunately, this poem
does none of those things.

COFFEE HOUSE POETRY READING

There were eight of us.
All of us wondered,
though none of us said it,
why anyone in his or her
right mind, would want to sit
and pay attention to anything
we had written. But they did
and applauded politely when
we finished. Which was nice.

But all eight of us wished,
though none of us said it,
that they, every man
and woman there, had
sprung to their feet
and cheered and cheered and cheered.

CONTEST CONTINUED

The grey thief who plunders
my backyard bird feeder has returned.
Tail aloft and twitching, he cocks
his head, apprising the new situation.
I've moved the feeder farther out
the branch, strung another baffle
on the cord. I doubt it will succeed.
I am contending with a relentless robber.
His appetite will doubtless prevail against
my latest stratagem.

            Is it time to quit,
to acknowledge, at long last, that,
as in life, there are inevitabilities
we are helpless to resist, like
the slow but certain erosion of our flesh,
the mounting accumulation of loss,
the certainty of grief?
Perhaps. Perhaps.
But if the furry bandit wins again,
maybe I could . . .