“An Hour at the Goodwill” and Other Poems by D. Watson

Donald Watson is now retired after decades of university teaching and administration. He has published scholarly books, articles, and reviews and also has fiction and poetry in literary journals. His prize-winning poem will appear in the July issue of Writer’s Digest. Further publication details upon request.

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An Hour at the Goodwill

off on a tangent to squander

an hour                     at a new store

in an upscale neighborhood —

sport jackets              suits of unknown sizes

not worth the effort            browsing shelves of novels

cookbooks       tables of bric-a-brac    knick-knacks:

the discarded, the chipped, the obsolete, the forgotten.

Reagan/Bush 84 campaign pin,

Mason jar of seashells              seaside postcards from the 1950s

single-story motels on the beach

bagatelles, keepsakes, tchotchkes, heirlooms

stir the imagination:

a brooch Nana wore the day before her stroke?

silk paisley ascot and garnet earrings

the newlyweds on their honeymoon?

a snow globe with the Eiffel Tower — another

with Snoopy, Charlie Brown, and a Christmas tree

Eric Carle’s hungry caterpillar             and Luna moth

dozens of Golden Books               Doctor Seuss

A tourist’s guide to France – in Spanish

do these discards

feel sad, abandoned for sale for fifty cents —

displaced                         wanting to be again

in the kids’ room with Green Eggs

family photos and birthday cards             on the mantle with a fat scented candle

items deserving a yard sale –

a rust-colored loveseat

painted and stained chairs

tables, nightstands, a Naugahyde recliner

Lucky jeans like new

a Merino sweater, a Michael Kors blouse

with the Macy’s tags attached

a Notre Dame sweatshirt

a t-shirt with Tina Turner

and the dates of her tour

New items every Tuesday

We will be here again

Grilling on the Tower

chimney of hot coals added to embers     sparks

ash     charcoal ruins       flutter            escape

black leaves travelling through smoke rising

from the grill               black butterflies drift

fall on a denim knee     on potato salad      bread

black leaves floating         dead souls        ghosts

black butterflies drift           foretell

the fall of kingdoms                bats’ wings

add the Sunday comic pages

add the hickory chips

energy to quicken embers

smoky fume for lichen on the brick wall

sparrows pass beneath the umbrella

to peck crumbs and seeds

Spring afternoons among shadows–

gusts waft salad greens from the teak bowl

paper plates sail into rose bushes

fragrances surround the terrace

clouds pass across the sky

darkens           humidity drops

the rain is approaching, dancing

across April fields     up hills

down trails     watering the garden’s wildflowers

to partner with lilies                swaying in the breeze

three cherubs hugging a plaster column support the bath for three birds

splashing with the rain’s idioms

the orange tabby huddles

under a chair and watches—

the ghosts of luncheon guests

gaze at the steam rising from the grill

The Nightly News

A few survivors search the remnants:

a boot, a sock, a radio, toys, a doll buried beneath broken walls

a silver bracelet and a pencil box, a mangled bicycle wheel and handlebars

Listening for a sound: a few dogs barking in the  distance,

the scrape and clink of a shovel and the rumble of a bulldozer far away

The human stench of what they hope and don’t hope to find,

Wandering through the debris from the schools and the hospital

a bloody shirt rests on the rusting hood of small truck

Is this the scene of a Category 4 hurricane? Destruction from its violence and its

companion floods, tornadoes, and thunderstorms?

Winds powerful enough to flatten cities?

No, this is Gaza, not central Florida, Houston, or the Great Plains.

This is Tehran, not a natural disaster aftermath. This is the carnage

from a barrage of bombs and missiles

from American weapons

sent from the world’s largest arms dealer,

but that’s jobs for American workers and profits for America manufacturers

we watch through our windows six thousand miles away.

Four experts around an oval glass table, take in the image

with us, breaking news, inflation, unemployment, interest rates.

Politics a spectator sport, infotainment

below the table high heels crossed at the ankles,

opposite the brown wingtips with white soles,

each with a white coffee mug and note pad,

a pen, but none drinks or writes,

In a city with few ideas, men in dark suit and red ties,

too busy to pretend empathy

Autumn Bulbs

Autumn collects the colors of late October’s

gathering leaves, the afternoon’s shadows longer

after planting the bulbs, pruning, weeding, sitting

on the garden bench with the shovel and rake,

trowel in hand, imagining next spring’s

jonquils, ranunculi, dahlias, begonias.

A few rose petals remain. Two squirrels,

chasing each other, circle the oak;

the twilight deepens the sky, portends arrival.

The twenty-sixth, last Sunday of the month,

soon November and the promise of camellia

and gardenia whites, the magnolia’s grand greenery.

Northern winds scatter reds and gold, brown and orange

across the faded lawn and set off a chorus of windchimes

swaying under the bare limbs of the cherry tree.

No need to want more comfort or consolation.

This is more than good enough, I could never wish

for a better afternoon’s planting and pleasure.

The aroma of lamb stew as it simmers in the Dutch oven.This is not an afternoon to be spoiled by metaphors.

My Siblings

I know she’s there, my sister, standing behind me,

watching me wash my face, brush my teeth.

I never had a sister.

In the mirror my brother and I look much alike,

almost twins, only he’s older.

He wants to shoot hoops or play catch

or golf or go to a movie.

I never had a brother. I always wanted one.

I wanted a younger sister to ask me

to help with math or an essay.

I never had a sister. I wanted one.

My back is to my brother but I know

he’s watching me assemble a sandwich.

I know he’s thinking mustard, swiss, and ham

but he doesn’t say anything, but I know….

I have no brother. I never had a brother.

He disliked turkey, tomato, and mayo

I take my lunch into my room and close the door.

I sense him at the door deciding whether to knock,

but he doesn’t. I never had a brother.

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