JACK EISENMAN'S POEMS

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Whose hands packed the arm-less doll,

Ford truck with rust-locked wheels,

Bag of marbles, broken crayons, coloring books 

Where dogs are blue, lines irrelevant?

 Neighborhood boys

and Daisy B.B. guns

posed lethal combinations 

for sparrows and jays.

Hunting became daily fun

except on Sunday 

when religious prohibition

paused such activity.

I shot one bird in my kid life.

A Cardinal perched high.

Red crested male.

Bright Red.

So red, feathers reflected 

the sun’s blaze as I fired.

Brought him down.

Experienced euphoria felt 

neither before nor since.

I yelled words not listed 

in my ten-year-old lexicon.

Up close, plumage appeared brighter

than when viewed through cross hairs. 

I remembered last week when I cut 

my finger on a piece of glass.

 Dad said it was just a rain water filled 

concrete rectangle with rounded ends.

I called it the ocean.

Told my classmates how tadpole porpoises 

wagged their tails through the surf

never once bumping into a friend.

How I sailed on a boat with Captain Ahab

and fell overboard when whales rammed our stick.

How once I saw a green snake sea monster

skim below the surface with only his head 

above the water and all the sailors shrieked.

How dragonfly mermaids sat on barren islands 

and waved welcomes to passing sticks.

How seamen jumped ship and swam to rocks

only to have the mermaids fly away.

How navy seals disguised as frogs

Dove to the bottom in search of submarines.

How at night they sat on the ocean’s rock rim

And told adventure tells in coded frog language.

How I broke the code and listened through

My bedroom window.

How one day dad dumped dirt in the ocean.

I saw you under the oak yesterday

and continued on my way without speaking.

I’m back today to apologize for my rudeness.

 From my front porch

I watch first drops

Of what promises to be 

A rain burst.

I count them.

Four, nine, thirteen

Strike the brick walkway,

Car, window pane.

At fourteen I lose count.

The cloud becomes

A showerhead,

The lawn a public bath.

A Styrofoam cup floats

Along the curb.

My inclination is to dash

Into the torrent,

Grab the cup,

Save earth from pollution.

Then a fanciful thought:

A voyage.

This cup embarks

At my front step.

A sail past

Neighborhood homes

On a ride toward

The Atlantic.

The cup's on its way

To the world.

A discovery cruise.

“Cup! Cup!

Wait for me!”

I run.

Splash gutter water.

Chase my boat 

Past Branson’s house,

The Bennett’s manicured lawn,

A double wide trailer where

Three cats in a window

Watch me leap into fantasy,

A maniac in a cup.