Two Poems | David R. DiSarro

The War

Corporal McLaughlin awoke, bleary-eyed and seething, the sound

of a courier thudding with precision on the Parisian doors.

He kicked the covers, a bottle of 1942 Bordeaux dripping on the floor,

a woman he remembered as “Angeline” laid in the pillows. He flung

open the door, naked, except for the tattered gauze, a souvenir

from the hedgerows, a piece of German shrapnel still lodged

in his leg. The poor, portly messenger handed him an envelope, tipped

his cap to one side, and disappeared without a word into the rubble.

The Corporal traced the meticulous cursive with his fingers quivering –

it was from Dottie. He remembered her delicious, burning southern drawl,

droplets of Kentucky white lightning, the lilac perfume that lingered

in a skiffling honky tonk just outside Lexington, and the loose

threads of a homemade polka-dotted dress tracing up her nylons.

He sat for a while, folding the pages into origami, fingering

the knot of metal just above his knee. No one ever tells you

how to deal with surrender, whether in war or with a woman.

Dollar Store (For Pepper)

It was simple enough and it was fairly easy

for the money, which wasn’t much. Trucks

would come in droves, carrying bins – stinking

or leaking, filled with perfume to motor oil

to candy or over-the-counter drugs. We’d hide

the good stuff for ourselves – pop it, chug it,

pocket it – shove the empty containers wherever

we could and walk-out of our shifts with a decent buzz.

But it wasn’t all us.

The best were the detergent thieves. Pouring liquid

fabric softener into water bottles, dribbling blue down

their pants, that awkward dance from the back to the exit,

looking for blindspots. There was no use trying to catch

them. I had nothing against someone smelling good.

But it wasn’t all bad.

There were the regulars, often the people buying cigs

or dip, or Big Daddy beers for a Tuesday after (or before)

work, or the haggard single moms and grandmas buying

dry goods when the government checks cleared their accounts.

They were my kind of people. Warm. Worn-down. Still,

I had decided not long ago I wasn’t going back, which seemed

normal enough – I never could last long at one job.

But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Even though the hours were long

and the pay was lousy, I liked the people

and “Pepper” had asked me to stay – so I did.

She was on the downslope of her 50s,

already had a couple great-grandkids,

along with arthritis and a disabled husband.

Every Wednesday a local named Jon would come

and flirt with her, bring a meal from the gas station

for her shift – one of few times she’d smile

during the week. I swear, that tobacco-stained

smile was enough for me to stay, stay in a place

where no one seemed to have a second chance

at anything – and yet she had everything a person

could want, under those tired fluorescent lights,

and I wanted it too.

David R. DiSarro is currently an Associate Professor of English at Endicott College in Beverly, MA. His work has previously appeared, or is forthcoming, in ANTAE: A Journal of Creative Writing, Second Chance Lit, The Wilderness House Literary Review, The Hawaii Pacific Review, Shot Glass Poetry Journal, among others. David's first chapbook, I Used to Play in Bands, was published by Finishing Line Press. He currently lives on the North Shore of Massachusetts with his wife, Riley, five children, and two rambunctious dogs.