Two Poems | David R. DiSarro
POETRY
4/7/20252 min read
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.