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

Ninety-three: Redemption:

Wandering, you dip into a trough the size and shape 

of a grounded sailboat, now a place to collect water.

Most do not put to sea a second time 

in a boat that has seen disaster.

“Tis a good boat and a sound boat

but sell 'er." they say.

A boat in which one was lost will be left to rot like this 

for the tide to carry, no use repairing the unlucky.

This one's bream needs to be scraped and burned. 

Still...

Would be much to feel the tiller against your ribs again.

Main sheet tugging in hand

Both of you... Leaping! Bouncing!

And a silver wake rustling astern.

©️Mark W. Ó Brien 2022

Ninety-Two:

Bolivian is everywhere. Wait,

that was meant to be oblivion.

Anyway, Bolivians are everywhere too

in Bolivia. Which is where you will find 

Oblivion as well. Everything is 

everywhere also. But that’s obvious

not Oblivion. How many Bolivian’s 

does it take to be obvious? 

How many lightbulbs does it take

to screw up oblivion?  What is a 

Bolivian Oblivion? Is that 

where Butch and Sundance 

tried to go and wound up 

continually mysterious  instead?

Nintey-one:

Epicotyl! Cotyledon! Scale…

I have been listening to the 

bud scales pop-off 

as the leaves burst forth.

Next week it will be as if 

the leaves hadn’t left.

They call them 

Bud-scales or Bud-coats. 

All the other parts of the plant 

embryo get fancy names. 

As important as they are and 

everything hinging on them

“I think the scientists really 

dropped the ball on this one.”