two poems

by David Calogero Centorbi

The Waiter

The waiter sees pigeons holding machetes or lighters. 

He never knows, but he accepts his fate.

And for me, his tight black chinos outweigh his possible schizophrenia.

And besides, he makes a Campari spritz that could stop a heart attack!

Speaking of. Did you know that Marie Antoinette,

right before she lost her head, had one ( not a spritz)

and robbed all those peasant caulkers of their erotic, death by decapitation fetish fix?

But let me,

for the sheer joy of transparency—a word I would love to use more often—say,

I read that on some internet site with so many pop-up ads I could barely finish it.

So, to be perfectly transparent, I’m not sure if it’s true,

but I want it to be for her sake, poor thing.

And poor,

poor is a word I only use for the dead.

I'm looking for the living,

for that just-right pair of chinos

to woo into bed— my transparent

metaphor for strange sex:

salty and fragile,

sweet and vulnerable,

bitter and forgiving,

all the attributes of sexy and keepable.

And, of course, there must be that roll—daddy-green bank account,

just waiting to see me around the world,

and especially to Milan, which the late,

and devastatingly missed, Anthony Bourdain once said,

In America, one must be something, but in Italy one can simply be.

And that’s what I'm talking about:

If I’m kept, I can be me.

So, let the good times roll around on a king sized bed

in the most expensive room at the Bulgari hotel, Milan.

And the words, the soundtrack of my life

will fill the streets and cafes:

Don't stop believing, hold on to that feeling.

But, I did let go,

once I looked down at the check

and saw a doodled, winking emoji and a,

have a nice day or evening—

evening was set apart with an exclamation point!

I tried to find those black pair of chinos

among the chattering dinners, but nothing.

So, I did the only thing I could think of,

I held up my empty spritz glass and looked around,

hoping the need to serve would be so strong it would summon the doddlier back to me,

and we could try that evening thing out because I didn't want to spend another night alone.

And, to be completely transparent,

I wanted to let those black chinos know,

I prefer they were holding lighters,

but if happily ever after meant, matchettes

either way

let it be.

At the Bucks

I saw a red freckled girl eating a pink cake pop.

And oh, she beamed with the purest of gratitude at creation.

And, being me, cursed to the examined life,

I knew I needed to name the beaming.

So I stared and ruminated, but far too long.

Her mother stepped between us.

“Can I help you,” her voice pure in its ferocity.

“She is enjoying that and I am happy for her.”

She nudged her daughter with her legs away to a table.

I got up and walked to the counter,

“I will have a pink cake pop,” a last, peripheral look:

cakey pink mess on the young girl’ face.

“I’m sorry sir. That one is so popular with the kids it’s sold out, but a lot of older people like our new butterscotch and cream, but it'll only be around for a short time.”

And I thought I saw the barista wink at me,

but with a shake of my head I actually saw that familiar,

but never appreciated stare—why does it take these idiots so long to figure out what they want?

My usual saved me: “Four shots of espresso and a chocolate croissant, warmed up a bit.”

The barista’s half smile made it clear there was no such setting.

Still, leaving caffeinated and croissanted untwisted the knot,

knotting in my stomach, and the humid summer air cleared my mind.

And there, as usual, at the entrance of the park,

where I usually went to finish my espresso and croissant,

was the long, white, greasy haired,

long, white, greasy bearded—I always thought—crazy old man,

sitting at the same chess board table

staring at the same chess pieces,

but this time he looked at me and nodded toward the board

which I took to mean, let’s have a game.

I smiled a bit and shrugged my shoulders,

hoping he took that to mean, I have no idea how to play.

But then he frowned,

and nodded at the board twice,

which was perfectly clear,

maybe it's time you learn, so next time  you can just hang out with me

and play chess, and let those Starbucks people have the day.

Photo of David Calogero Centorbi

BIO: David Calogero Centorbi is a writer who in the 90's earned an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Arizona. Now, he is writing and working in Detroit, MI. His manuscript, The Eloquence of Departure, was the 2023 James Tate Poetry Prize winner and was published by SurVision Books, 2024 He is also the author of Landscapes of You and Me, (AlienBuddha Press, 2001) and After Falling Into Disarray (Daily Drunk Press, 2001)