Joan Pond

Joan Pond is a computer nerd by vocation and poet by avocation. She can

be reached at boodles1@aol.com.

On Greenwich Avenue,

Fred festooned a fir with lights.

"Jesus," he said. "It just ain’t right.

I bought this string at CVS

and it’s already broke.

This Christmas stuff’s for the birds.

Man, it’s a joke.

I got no wife and my whole life’s changed."

But when I shook his hand,

the blue lights lit.

"Holy shit!" he said. "It’s a miracle."

And we stood,

bathed in cerulean light.

And So I Called A Taxidermist

A sudden snow squall as we headed to Maine.

Another weekend of Paul asking,

when are you moving in?

Much silence as snow fell.

Pines appeared

as Crest-coated toothbrushes.

I laughed at the ceiling fan,

circulating mephitic air;

snow shoes on the wall,

and all the things that made

this place extemely, him.

There was no room for me

unless I was mounted to a wall.

And so I called a taxidermist,

asking,

what I should do.

On off-white walls, the writing extends down the hallway to the front door.

Using his piano as a bar, there are opened bottles of vodka and beer.

Everywhere, leaning piles of trash; and in the corner,

a dish for a deceased cat.

The plate had been created by his mother. Her signatory grey

and blue finish with a pattern of fish.

Yet I'd abandoned this place,

not returning for many years.

A GE kitchen magnet still sticks to the frig,

with clippings from when we were married. And the plate

his mother created, still awaits a cat that would never return.

Especially,

if it was still alive.

And this I could understand.

I sat on Paul’s bed while using the phone.

Speaking to my husband,

I had no fear of being alone,

only the angst of being with someone,

simply,

to assuage my loneliness.

This room with its mis-matched set;

discards from a former life.

All the things his wife no longer valued.

I hung the phone and fluffed the bed

never wanting to lie there again.

I seem to value my husband,

most,

when others don’t meet his standards.

Joan Pond