| Three Poems by Jessy Randall | ||
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Getting the Muffler Fixed I’ve never been underneath my car before. Can I be sure I won’t be trapped? It’s too late; here I am standing looking up at my muffler. It will take forty-five minutes, the man says. So I walk past all the stores to buy the black telephone of my dreams, a Metropolis. Then, at Radio Shack, sit enraptured before the Grinch, laugh when he pulls the cartoon dog down to say "without presents? without baubles?" and make my way back to my car, my shadow falling on the numerous televisions shining through the window glass in the bright air. Defrosting the Refrigerator In the middle of the night the sound of something crashing. Now I know I am not dreaming. Have we hit an iceberg? No, it is only the Titanic of my room rolling in the waves. In the morning a mess of water on the kitchen floor. Nine Short Poems About Paris While you are trying to sleep, a bird moans. Flunch, Dooble, Quick, Naf-Naf. A lady who is mean is mean to everyone – not just because she is French. Sigh – you cannot say the complicated thing. The Stravinsky fountain has many parts, all moving. It is fun to read a bad book in a good café. Narrow streets and narrower sidewalks. You may fall off the curb. The man continues to butter the crepes, and butter them, and butter them. At night, the Seine is lit up like a television. _________________________________________________________________________ JESSY RANDALL grew up in Rochester, New York, where the sky is almost always white. Her poems have recently appeared in Mudfish and Antietam Review, and an excerpt from her first novel appears in Feminista at www.feminista.com/v2n8/. Click here to read Jessy Randall's last poem in ForPoetry. |
