Ninety-seven: “Where do the stars go?”

I sit in a seat my father once sat upon

In a small town diner off the green.

I am tasting the coffee as he must have.

My mother would be sitting there too.

They’re smelling the bacon and eggs

as I count sixty years of burned toast.

What I can’t imagine now is how

they let the years pass by.

I wonder, would I have been me?

Would you have been you?

Do you think we would have found each other

in a small town diner off the green?

When I die and if I go to heaven

is it ok if it’s 1962?

©️Mark W. Ó Brien 

28June2022

Ninety-six: Yellow journalism.

Fruit of all kinds is so plenty 

that it scarcely pays for the gathering.

If a doorknob opens by itself 

then maybe it’s haunted.

When your train of thought leaves without you 

start walking.

Burglars are at work all around us 

our citizens should oil their rusty revolvers. 

If you don’t know where you’re from 

you’re not from anywhere.

The prospects for a good ice crop in July 

are slim.

Poetry is dangerous 

because it causes you to remember.

Mark W. Ó Brien

22June2022

Nintey-five: June 2, 1888, page two.

Master Robert Wands, the genial clerk at the new store 

thought he would take a ride for his health one day.

He had his noble steed “Jack” before a sulky

as he passed Fryer’s Hotel heading west.

A steam engine stood on the side track

and it’s noise caused the horse to shy against the bank.

Suddenly “Rob” found himself tipped out of his sulky

as Jack continued his leisurely walk along the bank.

Jack and the sulky mean time remained right side up

although the bank is so steep a goat could scarcely climb it.

He then climbed up the embankment on to the West Shore RR

and was captured by Fred the baggage man of the Altamont local.

Master Robert Wands got into his sulky and finished his ride

whistling as he went…

©️Mark W. Ó Brien

09June2022

Ninety-four:

“The Postoffice Cat Is Dead.” the headline read.

I don’t know why that made me laugh

 

or the reason for the floating feeling 

as the ground began to fall away and I watched 

myself slip into a manhole backasswards.

I think of this each time a clear wind

blows around in my skull and I hover 

for a moment at the edge of imbalance. 

All those years were no more than a blink

‘till I started singing on the street beyond

 

and succeed in forgetting the exit 

to my darkest days. It was then that I remembered 

that poor cat and the supervening sub-head:

“Clerk Mistakenly Delivers Cat To Dead Letter File.”

©️Mark W. Ó Brien

06June2022