Four Poems | Bart Edelman

Nothing to See Here

And, yet, we’re transfixed,

Unable to leave the scene,

Struck by implications—

Dumb luck it wasn’t us.

The how, when, and why,

Tip the situational switch.

A moment here, an hour there,

And we’re chance’s latest victim,

Convulsing on the operating table—

Theater at its finest.

Still, we seek more information.

The who, what, and where,

Bear witness to this random fate,

Unless, of course, you wake at dawn—

A bullseye affixed to your back.

But the cop has his eyes

Fixed directly on your heart,

Telling you to move on,

Keep the motor strong and steady,

Ready for the next accident.

Ozone

Not the sharp tack

I was back then,

When it came so easy,

And I could remember

What I ate for lunch—

Not to mention breakfast.

But here in the ozone,

Reality is a bitch,

Who refuses to leave,

Despite the warning given,

For her immediate release,

On grounds of cruelty—

If, certainly, nothing else.

I try plying her with gifts:

A door, a knob, a key,

Any tiny scrap of wood.

Yet she furrows her brow.

Cocks that pretty head.

Settles in and stays put—

Much to my chagrin.

I’d kill her if I could.

Pay for it with my life.

However, I lack the strength—

Advanced age and such.

Yes, now she’s grinning.

Staring straight back at me.

Strip-teasing the night away,

Before she slips into bed.

The Craven

I come from the craven—

This much I know—

Long line of cowards,

Not ready for prime time,

Or a single public forum.

We cower, of course,

When our names are called,

For all service-related fields,

Having spent time incarcerated,

When we failed to do our duty—

Enlist, as it were, in life, liberty,

And the pursuit of happiness;

Fates we’ve never enjoyed,

On any imaginable front.

I recall being shown

Old photographs of relatives—

Both distant and familiar.

Their odd countenance stared

Straight back at me,

As if it were a warning,

Convincing me of the grip

I simply couldn’t avoid,

No matter what I attempted—

Escape an utter impossibility.

Now, at least, I know my limits.

It’s not much, admittedly,

But keeps me grounded,

Without heroic thoughts in mind.

Little Miss Know-It-All

Memorizes the dictionary,

One adjective after another.

Possesses no need for nouns,

Except those that tantalize

Her tell-tale tongue,

Each time she speaks in public.

Wraps every single boy,

And a few of the girls,

Around her pretty, pink toes

She displays all summer long,

And well into fall’s first days.

Informs her mom and stepdad,

She will be an astronaut,

A ballerina, a math professor,

And the President of the United States,

If the country knows what’s good for it.

Walks a decidedly crooked line

Between the dark and the light,

When midnight serenades the moon.

Loves her cocker spaniel, Edmund,

More than the square root of 144.

Bart Edelman’s poetry collections include Crossing the Hackensack (Prometheus Press), Under Damaris’ Dress (Lightning Publications), The Alphabet of Love (Red Hen Press), The Gentle Man (Red Hen Press), The Last Mojito (Red Hen Press), The Geographer’s Wife (Red Hen Press), Whistling to Trick the Wind (Meadowlark Press), and This Body Is Never at Rest: New and Selected Poems 1993 – 2023 (Meadowlark Press). He has taught at Glendale College, where he edited Eclipse, a literary journal, and, most recently, in the MFA program at Antioch University, Los Angeles. His work has been widely anthologized in textbooks published by City Lights Books, Etruscan Press, Fountainhead Press, Harcourt Brace, Longman, McGraw-Hill, Prentice Hall, Simon & Schuster, Thomson/Heinle, the University of Iowa Press, Wadsworth, and others. He lives in Pasadena, California.