b. seaton: words

aside

as I peruse the local news

(not local in space

but local to me as in

local to my so-called

social network

my local social environment)

I find

(as I always do

these reminders are constant

and while not

inescapable are difficult

to evade to eschew

to slip away from)

that I have more regrets

(and these are not

regrets in the sense

that I have done things

I should not have done

I regret very little that

I have done and

feel no desire to share those

few moments with you

rather these are things

I have not done

and the moment is

gone forever

what I should have done

then I did not do

or what I should

have said then I

did not say)

than I had thought

(and it happens all the time

every day I am reminded

of something I missed

something I didn’t do with her

or say to him something lost)

.

To a Skee-Ball Queen

her muscles tense at the end of the lane,
and sweaty fingers fondle tender grain.
again and again that flashing light—
she’ll put it in that hole all night.
she rubs ‘em till they’re squeaky clean—
it’s Kia! Kia the boardwalk dream!

she bends toward the goal and rolls,
as the boys all watch (her form, of course).
oh, see them sigh when the tickets tear.
and is it ever getting hot in there!
the young boys melt into a puddle of teen—
she’s Kia! these boys are beginning to steam!

as silence grips these humid halls,
she gently cups the silky balls,
and lets one fly—it’s found the goal!
and slips gently into its proper hole.
the greatest thing you’ve ever seen—
it’s Kia—Kia, the skee-ball queen.

the aid

she tucks her hair back

over one ear, exposing

the little secret

real magic

little black witch spider,

grand high priestess of

magical transmutation,

uses her magic to turn

a horrid brown beetle

(after hours or days of

mystical dance and

pacing of the circle she

has drawn) into a

beautiful and delicate

white sigil infinitely

more complex than any

demonologist or pagan’s

incantation. from their

food, like me, all they

will ever make is shit.

On Entering a 10th-Grade English Classroom: A Memory

Hippie James grins guiltily

and returns to his seat,

my knit hat having been

securely stuffed into the

hole in the ceiling tile so that

it hangs oddly, open,

a crown for an invisible

flying gnome. Kimmy has

a story she wants to share

with the class and even

though she told me about

writing it this morning

as I entered the building

she waves her hand in

the air madly to be called

on. This will continue

silently until I address

her, so I let her stew for a

few. Peter needs to go to

the bathroom and does.

Not in his seat like—he

actually leaves the class to

do it. Priscilla and that

new girl whose name I’ve

forgotten again talk in the

back, presumably about

boys; Priscilla is looking

weepy again. Katherine

puts away her book—she’s

teaching herself Japanese.

She pushes up her glasses

and folds her legs (which

seem sometimes to contain

extra sets of knees and ankles)

beneath her. Ryan takes

off his hat. Matt turns off

the music. I swear I locked

my door when I went to

lunch. How do they get in?

brick i

a brick

with a little

speck of mortar

left on a vacant lot

after the building

has come down

is like a man

standing naked

(no erection)

in a bathtub

in a field

in a thunderstorm

holding up a swimming

pool net

to the sky

howling growling

wordless curses

to the downpour

they’re both

just waiting

to be buried.