..................................................................................................................................................
The Poetry Of.
Wayne Noone...............................................
Hymnal
Toward the end of his life
he began to pick up books
he had read years ago
as a student,
their edges already begun to yellow.
He would turn through the pages,
look at the underlining penciled
in a different hand,
sound out the text, silently
mouthing the words
like his father.
Taking a book at lunchtime
outside to the parking lot
behind his office,
he watched the light glancing
off the Monongahela River
strike the concrete
at his feet and fill him,
as if his eyes expanded
and his head were gone,
as if the light were pouring into him,
as if his whole person were
relinquished
in that gray December light.
Cautious by nature,
he was rarely rash enough
to write, but he wished
he could capture this,
put it down with
some semblance of clarity,
that it might give others
some easiness
with the hard things.
Love Poem
The man at the second floor
landing of the apartment building
on Greenlee
who will kill her knows
without knowing
that there is a sameness
to love and destruction,
that both
are equally
without redemption.
And the old men,
who still use Brylcreme
to wave their hair,
and still trim their mustaches,
still wear a sports coat
to the bar, or to the track,
remember.
And you,
with your soft face,
looking at me.
And me, looking,
looking for that last
look.
Monster
Saturday short hard run
at the Chartiers Valley
middle school track.
Warm up light jog
around the parking lot,
on a low rise nearby
pass two six year olds
wailing stones
at a third trying to cover his head
with his hands.
Feeling pretty limber,
start my first lap.
Two teenage girls
doing hurtler's stretches
on the grass.
Circle the track again,
one of the girls
coming up fast behind me.
See her from my side
glistening
small breasts sheathed in sports bra
bare midriff tight
with muscle.
Pick up the pace legs pumping
she's right alongside
effortless
her honey colored ponytail
bouncing with her stride.
Pushing as hard as I can
breath cracking,
45 years old and
pack and a half a day
pin prick jabs
in the chest, was a time
when I'da run her
down like prey.
Watch her glide past
watch her tight
rump rolling
like laughter.
When I stop she's already
done, lapped me twice.
"You run good," I say.
Bent over catching her
breath, hands on knees she
looks up,
hesitant smile.
I show my teeth
like Mack the Knife:
"but you might run
faster if you lost
a little of that
fat in those hips."
