June 2015
I am the poetry editor; Wilderness House Literary Review. My poetry comes from personal experiences and I write almost every day. I have three books of poetry and many chapbooks.
gas station attendant
“it takes discipline,” he confesses
his side stare
hesitant to give to much information
about ways to win at the horse track
handsome
movie star handsome
he pumps gas when not betting at the kentucky derby
or whatever track remains open
horses or dogs who run for sport
father was more handsome than most men
mother close to the ground, boxy skirts uniform her
every weekend coins clicked on dining room table
charley fiddled, freddie his brother sang
angie worked in the shoe factory with mother
harry policed our town
stuie loved older women
joe married my aunt when tony died
poker players coin our days, the pot often won with 2 pairs
father slapped cards hard, for him lose
always came. he lost more than most men
week days, father played cards in his cobbler shop
mother works 8 to 5, factory noise punctures her ear drum
a long corridor led to the toilet in the back of his shop
on wednesday father went to wonder land horse track
I sat across from a long mirror, watching myself grow
listening to rhythm and blues on his radio
the twang of desert boots, not tall enough for american boys
my hand reaches quarters in cash register when left alone
the handsome gas station attendant hands me my change
“it takes discipline,” he confesses
his side stare
hesitant to give to much information
about ways to win at the horse track
handsome
movie star handsome
he pumps gas when not betting at the kentucky derby
or whatever track remains open
horses or dogs who run for sport
father was more handsome than most men
mother close to the ground, boxy skirts uniform her
every weekend coins clicked on dining room table
charley fiddled, freddie his brother sang
angie worked in the shoe factory with mother
harry policed our town
stuie loved older women
joe married my aunt when tony died
poker players coin our days, the pot often won with 2 pairs
father slapped cards hard, for him lose
always came. he lost more than most men
week days, father played cards in his cobbler shop
mother works 8 to 5, factory noise punctures her ear drum
a long corridor led to the toilet in the back of his shop
on wednesday father went to wonder land horse track
I sat across from a long mirror, watching myself grow
listening to rhythm and blues on his radio
the twang of desert boots, not tall enough for american boys
my hand reaches quarters in cash register when left alone
the handsome gas station attendant hands me my change
©2015 Irene Koronas