Two Poems
One Man Band
"Dad, today I sat on the floor cross-legged,
ate an apple, and listened to your tape of
Ralph Stanley and the Clinch Mountain Boys."
It brought back all the times
we spent chasing them and their bluegrass,
year in, year out,
at Wilmore,
on the river at Owensboro,
at Keaches Barn in Henderson,
and down Highway 23.
You stood beside their stage
on Jerusalem Ridge, sweat drenched
your forehead, a blue paisley bandanna
pushed against plump veins.
You tapped a red-tipped cane
with a light staccato rhythm.
The crowd clapped and grinned.
Greyhound to Nowhere
She just wants a lipstick
that won't bleed,
a fresh easy haircut,
a bra that feels good.
She's tired of stray
chin hairs and
toenails thick
as a road-map.
Just once she'd like to
read the morning paper
before it's crumpled
and splattered with jam.
She'd trade waiting tables
at the Bob-O-Link
for one-way bus fare.—Barb McMakin, Crestwood, KY
