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John Blair


Superman  ☊

In a green ski jacket and red earband                           
I dribble the basketball on concrete cracks.
My numb ungloved hands
slap    slap cold leather
resuscitating stale air     inside.
I shoot the ball…
elongated in light shadows,
it streaks toward night.

Dad drives home in his two-tone green
Chevrolet Belair       1955
with a silver-wing hood ornament
and brilliant high-beam headlights
that rake the dark
and shoo cats into alley crevices.

I pull up the garage door and watch him
maneuver through the small opening
with astonishing ease
he discards the day’s residue
newspapers, telephone messages, cigarette butts.

Hi son, he acknowledges breezily
motions with his hands for the ball
and dribbles three times.

As he jumps, his dark gray topcoat flows
like a cape
and the swirling blue ball
elegantly swishes
through strings.
​

Tomatoes

…the tomato is a persnickety being – Julia Child

She brushes her ripeness
against my excited scapula.
I savor            brussel sprouts
bathing in butter      
broccoli flowers       lounging
under cheese sauce.         In
a mirrored restaurant
delicate avocado soufflé

multiplies infinitely.
I relish nubile green beans
marinated with basil and onion,
potatoes        lolling in cream sauce
showing-off to early peas. At
the movie, she lays her head
on my shoulder        hair
fragrant like dark rich loam

spills down my
bare arm       tickles
honeyed skin         cinnamons
my cranberries. As I drive home
her hand        kneads
raspberries overflowing
with morning dew.   Pie
cherries pucker… but

I eat crushed tomatoes
clinging to limp pasta.
​

Going out with Daddy Smell

Hair still damp
no more tears
Saturday night bath

blue flowered sofa
white flannel
pajamas

blue
boys fishing
Grandma sewed.

Turn well-thumbed
astronomy pages when
Pluto was a planet

Daddy
wears dark blue
church suit shimmering

blue tie
Mommy from their
bedroom, no glasses

hair brushed soft, face
smooth like an egg shell
warm red lips.

Be good, she whispers
Smiles, leans down
kisses my cheek

peppermint, cloves
cinnamon…
jazzed gardenia

that going out with Daddy smell
Picture

John Blair's profile
​


Cowgirl Cinnamon Rolls

Margaret, you stoke the cook stove
fragrant pine kindling, radiant tinder
shiny black coal

I saddle the wheeled bier
with your plain pine casket
and remember cowgirl cinnamon rolls

you hold out your palms
olive face unwrinkled 
dark eyes serene

your breath crimson, your hair
an ebony streaked gray
cascading down your back

the well-brushed sheen
shares vermilion hues
with sunrise 

hand fans
from mortician’s plump wife
flutter like roped butterflies 

warm milk dawns pink
mixed with flour, you push down
and knead

my turn to pull, fold, flatten
it feels alive, fluid
purring

sweaty mourners
battle unbridled
sobs together

we sprinkle sugared raisins
roll the long end
find a thread to cut rounds

a winged white Cadillac
moseys lariat curves
you lead us to the cemetery

yeast and cinnamon
begged from the oven
warm and sticky rolls

where patiently
you linger
briefly
​

Resonance

Grandma Clara lives, a tintype incarnate
same round face, faint lavender scent
resemblance remarkable  like
a glance through Grandpa’s eyes

Diane’s dark brown curls
blush cheeks
irrestible
Grandmother?

short, gray, chaste… we stroll
on unexpected streets
hold hands, kick vermilion leaves
eager for intimacy, but…

Unrequited

It starts in your gut
a warm spring
rum welling up
varnishes every
fiber, every cell
glossy drizzles
distill

to a fine clear amber
Paula
in a maroon turtleneck, white skirt
oxblood boots polished
and gleaming her
copper hair
alight from inside

elegant blue eyes
invite amazement.
I crave those
plain natural words…
Good night in
lush tones, smooth
eloquent aged

bourbon. Instead of
dousing
my bright high
her unavailability
ignites
brandy.

Comments?

***

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