William A. Greenfield
After a long career in public service, I am now semi-retired and reside with my wife and a spaniel named Phoebe in the Catskill Mountains of New York. I'm a fairly good poker player and a fairly terrible golfer. My poems have appeared in The Westchester Review, Carve Magazine, The East Coast Literary Review, and other journals.
In the third floor waiting room,
you sat in a rigid chair wringing
I asked if you wanted a magazine.
You shook your head, frowning.
When I said I meant bullets, you
turned away and held up your hand
like a traffic cop, afraid to make eye
contact, lest your mascara would run.
You said I was such a nitwit.
I thought the name was fitting, though
I may have preferred something akin
to my teenage strut.
Driving through Amish country, I
gazed over acres of bountiful fields
and absently remarked, “they sure
are growing a lot of shit over there.”
You managed to contain yourself
and said I was such a nitwit. If we
get another dog, I’m going to name
him Nitwit. You’ll have to come up
with a new label for me.
Just don’t call me Baby.
The Ever Shrinking Universe
So I come padding out of the bedroom
in manly slippers and she says “Yo Baby.”
We do this silly fist bump thing and
“Djeet?” She says “Cheerios.”
much to do, so we plan.
She’ll drive down
and I’ll drive back.
Now we’re outside
eating marshmallow Santas and
she asks why we still laugh. I
that the world gets smaller
There is no room left
for suicide bombers,
that we have to
get a card and send money
to the paperboy, but I put that
behind me because I
can’t find my way out
of J.C. Penny’s.
She laughs those pathetic
takes my hand. “Well,” I say,
“the store is just too big.” So, we shrink
down, our world a snow globe. Shaken,
it’s nothing but a swirl of flakes. Wound up,
we hear nothing but a twinkle
First appeared in The Westchester Review
being enamored to things;
the taste of cinnamon and blueberries,
the red beginning to flourish
on laden branches along the highway,
a scent left on her bed clothes
But, in the end,
it is the long conceptual composition.
sets my nape hairs to bristle
as it takes me full circle
to a melody that ends
just as it began.
In the end, given the warmth
of her hand in mine, it is
these melodies I will miss the most.
First appeared in The Black Fox Literary Review
©2016 William A. Greenfield