Cord Moreski

---

A Slight Revision

"It’s a lot like what you're doing right now,"      
I said to my roommate, the landscaper,       
as I sat at the patio table in our backyard       
one August afternoon before a family barbecue.     
    
I was revising a poem about irony that day,     
playing endless hours of eye ping-pong with each word.   
Until finally, I hoisted the scribbled draft  
to the sky like a sacrifice to the gods 
crushed it within my hands  
then hurled it onto the freshly-cut grass.      
     
"I still don’t see the connection,"       
my roommate shot back as he scooped     
the paper ball from the ground.     
   
He was surveying the yard     
with an empty grocery store bag in one hand       
and a garden trowel in the other,       
looking for any unwanted gifts left     
by his ferocious Shih Tzu he notoriously dubbed      Bark Twain.    
     
After a few more minutes of careful observation,        
my roommate walked back to the deck with a high head,        
unraveled my crinkly failure and began to study  
my poem like he did with our yard.   
  
"There's nothing wrong with it," he asserted as he read it over and over.        
"Look again," I insisted, "because you missed something there!"         
"Where?!" he demanded as he waved the paper in the air like a white flag.
I snatched my draft back from his grip and smiled, "It's under your shoe!"  
​

Age

​There will be a moment in time     
when you come to terms with the fact     
that it has finally happened to you:    
the lukewarm invitation     
for your upcoming high school reunion     
tacked on your kitchen cork board    
like an obituary column    
about a youth you once knew,    
or the younger distant cousin     
you haven’t seen in years,     
who went from baby bassinet    
to provisional driver’s license photograph    
to suddenly becoming a proud parent for the third time.    
Even sprucing up in front of a cheval mirror     
at nine o’clock on a Friday night for bed     
could potentially be an evident sign of this.    
    
And these are exactly the subtle reminders    
I have been turning my attention away from     
every time I feel a twinge in my lower back,    
or when my arms and knees burn like live wires,   
digging out my buried walkway this wintry morning     
from last night's five and a half feet of snow.    
And as I keep jabbing the sharp blade of my shovel     
into the powder that covers the rest of my neighborhood     
like a crime scene blanket draped over a fresh corpse,    
I try to identify what's beneath it all,    
yet I can't seem to recognize yesterday anymore.
​

The Blank Page

​It must have been    
at a workshop   
when I overheard this comparison,   
or maybe it was trapped    
inside a chapter   
from one of those overpriced    
“How to be a Poet” craft books    
I purchased long ago    
that writing every day   
is a journey,    
an ideal exploration   
from point “a” to  “infinity,”   
the metaphorical motorhome   
that travels along     
the winding road of the mind,   
flooring it from title   
to final punctuation mark.   
   
But every so often    
I lose myself here:  
in the blank page,   
where each direction I take   
is just another   
dead metaphor for freedom  
as old thoughts   
beg like panhandlers,   
seeking alms for stale time    
and second chances,   
while ideas I deserted long ago   
dwell on every other block    
lined up in rows   
like teeth from a hacksaw.   
   
And as I circle around   
for what seems like forever,    
I only end up where I started.   
So I lock the doors    
keep my eyes ahead    
and hope the next turn is a sign for home.

​Cord Moreski's profile

---

​Doppelgänger

I knew it wasn’t you that summer afternoon      
when I decided to quiet my head for a bit,      
wandering along the crowded boardwalk by myself.  
Not because you only preferred
the beach in September to avoid the swarms       
of drunk college kids and snooty tourists,   
or because you were caught up       
with some odd jobs that day,      
making repairs around the house. 
But simply because the little clenched fist       
pounding against the wall inside your chest      
decided to cease one day about ten winters ago.      
    
Yet there you seemed to appear, anyway:     
doppelgänger, stunt double, déjà vu look-alike,     
with your back to me holding a beach viewfinder  
between the palms of your hands,      
swiveling its chrome-plated shell like a gun turret      
as you stared through the tiny lenses to examine the shore.      
    
So I carried out 
my own investigation      
and tiptoed in your direction,      
but when I got three feet from behind you  
there was no urge left in my body     
to shout your name anymore    
or tap you on the shoulder       
in order to debunk what I already knew. 
All I had to grasp was that brief moment 
we both stood there together 
on our own pedestals—    
searching for something more       
beyond the naked eye.
​

​Cul-de-sac

​Minutes later,      
after the morning service ended,       
I found myself parking my beat-up sedan       
in the cul-de-sac where my parents lived.      
     
Untucking the tail of my dress shirt with one hand      
and locking the front door to my car with the other,      
I eventually tossed the dark blazer jacket       
over my shoulder like a burden I was forced to carry.        
      
And as I gazed at my parents’ driveway from across the street,       
I noticed—ensconced beneath an old canopy tent       
filled with rows of chafing pans and folding tables—my family     
bunched together with distant relatives and familiar strangers.      
     
So I loosened the Windsor knot around my neck       
and prepared to cross the road   
when unexpectedly,       
a station wagon pulled in front of me.      
     
He was an elderly man.       
An out-of-towner by the look of his plate number      
with eyes focused on me       
like a dog begging for table scraps.      
     
"Hey there! I am terribly sorry to bother you,” his voice broke       
over the motor engine as he lowered his passenger side window,      
“but can you tell me how to get back onto the main highway from here?       
I am afraid I took a wrong turn, and now I am a bit lost."       
     
So I rummaged within the depths of my trouser pockets       
and retrieve an open pack of tissues and a roller ball pen.      
With a few poor illustrations of crooked lines      
and scribbled marks, I finally handed him the directions.      
     
“That should do,” I insisted      
as we both began watching my little nephews       
and nieces playing tag around trees       
and deflated balloons in the front yard.     
      
"I really appreciate this," he replied       
clenching the paper between his fingertips,      
"and I apologize for keeping you       
from your party.”      
     
There, my response fell short from my tongue      
while he began to turn his vehicle around.      
“Have a nice day!" he urged before heading       
down the block into the blur of the May sun.      
     
I should have said thank you     
I thought to myself,      
but we just got back    
from a funeral.


​

Comments?

***