Underground, the bones of the crooked sheriff
Talks to the bones in the next lot, the bones
Of a pious, Baptist deacon, who raised neurotic children.
The crooked sheriff wants to tell the deacon’s bones
About the success of his grandson, who has a future
In computers, makes a salary in the six figures
The sheriff sees the sad face of the deacon,
Invites the deacon to join him in hymn singing.
They sing together, and the earth around their bones,
Puts its hands over their ears.
The tide jammed on its brakes
Before it reached the ex-colonel,
Who was miserable in sunlight,
But obeyed the fashion.
The tide has hands, not heavy wheels.
The tide has the body of a slender girl,
Not the heaviness of a car.
The tide stopped in repulsion
Because the tide has hands.
Sargasso and Sponges
Sargasso and sponges
Stick out their tongues
To touch my ankle.
All the houses on the shore
Put on tuxedoes, went
To the wedding of the tattoo and the dollar.
I stayed here, alone,
With Sargasso and sponges.
Duane Locke, Doctor of Philosophy in Renaissance Literature, Professor Emeritus of the Humanities, Poet in Residence at University of Tampa for over twenty years, and photographer (the photo of the leaf shadow, above, is his), has had over 2,000 of his own poems published in over 500 print magazines. He is author of fourteen books of poems, his latest being Watching Wisteria (to order write Vida Publishing, P. O. Box 12665, Lake Park, FL 33405-0665, or seehttp://www.vidapublishing.com or call Small Press Distribution in the USA on 1-800-869-7553). He now lives alone and isolated in the sunny Tampa slums. He lives estranged, he says, and as an alien, not understanding the customs, the costumes, the language, some form of postmodern English, of his surroundings. His recreational activities are drinking wine, listening to old operas, and reading postmodern philosophy.