Bob McAfee
Poetry
I screw words into a poem like forty-watt lightbulbs.
Often, the poem smells like a dead fish by Tuesday.
Other times, I bake it and leave it on the windowsill
to cool like a freshly cooked apple and rhubarb pie.
When I open the window to my soul, a burglar sneaks in
and absconds with the best lines, usually escaping
to Argentina, where he sells my words as burritos
at a taco stand in the art district of Buenos Aires.
My words appear thankless on the page, non-committal,
forgetting, as it were, that they were conceived
as I hugged an interior wall of the house during
the tornado that grazed Kansas City in October.
I watched them learn to crawl on their own,
rubbed my fingers against their gums when they teethed,
poured my wisdom into their pointy ears,
gave them their first bicycles with no training wheels.
Will you remember, my children, when you leave my home
at such a tender age, where you were born
and who it was that raised you, the love children
of an incredibly inept and lonely single parent.
Bob McAfee lives with his wife near Boston. He has written nine books of poetry, mostly on Love, Aging, and the Natural World. 118 poems have been accepted by 46 different publications. He hosts a Wednesday night Zoom poetry workshop. His website, www.bobmcafee.com, contains links to all his published poems.