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Coins at the Bottom of My Purse
(for harry k. stammer)

Bertha wore tall hats
and had a stately walk.
I admired her ability
to keep her hat straight
in high winds.
Never did I see
her raise a hand
to anchor it properly.

There lives a spider in the corner of the window above
my washer
in the dim recess of my basement.
Its complex house sports several insectile carcasses
that bring a shiver and a prayer
that I am not a witness
to its actual dinner.
Its legs are terribly long
and it appears to point at me, warning me
to leave it alone. Aloud, I said,
If you'll stop your wiggling, your wig-waggling
until I go, (it scares me so) we will get along just fine, Madam/Sir.
And it did. Just like that.

Nebitts walked for miles,
walked for years,
walked for whiskey
in ill-fitting shoes.
Someone else's shoes,
he'd not owned a brand new pair
since his wife left him in '69.
A bad summer that year — 'twas caused by sunspots
and solar flares, some said.
He shuffles now, 'tis less painful
this way, he says. And the mice can hear him coming.
Loyal reader,
if you are looking for a common thread, kindly stop — there is none.

© P. Gomes 2003