five poems

by Craig Kirchner

Five Doors

I drag my arthritic hips and lower back to the Kuerig,

not usually needing to be woken by the alarm,

the day is already much further along than usual,

when I put in the first of the pods.

While waiting for the perk I take a shot of enthusiasm,

chase it with a laugh and a Jägermeister, sure that when

I finally down my coffee, I will be ready to run a red light

and get pulled over for DWH, driving while happy.

It is Wednesday, anything can happen day,

but until a ridiculously hot shower occurs and

the morning ritual of pulsating the joints, nothing of

consequence will be changing my life too dramatically.

I fire up the laptop, open Gmail, there’s a note from Elf,

the usual golf this and that, a Slow Roasted Italian recipe,

an Elevator with the typical almost naked model,

and an “Open at your own risk” subject line.

Feeling very Tom Cruise in IMF and despite Dee’s advice

to never open such things, I make the click. Falling balloons

fill the screen with a CLICK HERE icon. This is where

you make the, could be a virus decision. I couldn’t resist.

Both of your natures, selves, spiritual and animalistic are invited to The Magic Theatre. For mad men only, in need of transcendence and healing.

I close the laptop, finish the coffee, go into the office and pull

Steppenwolf off the bookshelf, immediately Hesse whispers,

“When you turn to leave there will be hall with five doors,

representing portions of your life you need to explore.”

In the words of Sherlock, “The game is afoot.”

Late Night

Insomnia and I decide to get up

and check out some late-night TV.

It’s a mutual decision, but he gets credit for the idea.

I’m going to have a coffee, hazelnut,

and he’s down with the 12-year-old bourbon, neat.

He just couldn’t get comfortable,

and I was struggling with the bad knees.

He tells me I should get them replaced,

compares them to the week-old bread on the counter,

and the dishwasher that just went up.

We very seldom see eye to eye,

perhaps because he’s often hard to look at.

I wanted to watch a Ken Burns documentary,

he’s pushing for a Soprano’s binge,

something that could keep us up for days.

I beat him at Gin, but I think he lets me.

He loves when we think of something to write about,

always suggests we scribble, then rewrite.

He never seems to have any ideas or input,

says it’s not his job to interfere.

When we lay back down, he gets creative,

We need to discuss the big moments,

relive the details as best we can,

and he justifies that strategy by explaining,

We’ve been here for over 40 million moments.

When we’re ready to call it a day,

we need to play those top two dozen oldies,

keep putting quarters in the juke until

we get through all the greatest hits,

start with that blonde in the eighth grade.

When up, I need to start getting him to help out.

If he can’t suggest a line or a metaphor,

he could empty that new dishwasher he’s impressed with,

do a load of laundry. If I could talk him into walking the dog,

I might be able to get back to sleep.

Before Long

There is no death poem per se,

you know, the one they dig up as eulogy.

Perhaps out of a fear not realized or admitted to,

no death poem.

Wrote that mock bard Funeral rhyme -

apocalyptic imagery, announcing,

the insignificance of it all,

was young and reading sonnets.

The piece that documents Dad’s Passing,

still among us, the same sense of humor,

doorbell ringing during visits at Mom’s,

never anyone there.

Early on, there was the suggestion to

Look for me at Night, in shoes made of dusk,

and while stars melt the brown low clouds,

let the full moon, lead you to my ashes.

Youthful exuberance is a distant memory,

and no suicide implied stuff,

in fact, at 75, we’ll just live forever,

like a small pair in poker, like the

thimble and high hat on the monopoly board,

wanting to hold hands at wakes,

interrupt all the dreaded words,

with poetry and exotic drink orders.

Cotillion

In two weeks, I’ll be 75.

No party, a coming out, a celebration

of all the training I’ve had to get to this point.

I’ve been prepping for this part,

this moment, since the beginning.

I have none of the same vibrant cells that I

had in my stint as a vulnerable child,

running through the park

and all its curiosities,

or the teen dry humping to first orgasm.

The skin and hair that carried me on

non-arthritic knees through all the

numerous bits it took to

make a living are now dust,

faded memories.

All just understudy,

preparation for today’s starring role.

Three quarters of a century to get to

the lead in this drama,

and my pretend gathering.

I’m sure of the etiquette.

I know my manners, what to wear,

and how to greet and shake hands.

I will be polite to high brows,

and the politically naive.

I will smile when asked if I enjoy Florida.

I will sip my drink. There will be finger food,

carried on trays through the blurred faces in

the crowd. I will eat them one at a time,

call them hors d’oeuvres and bow to applause.

Double Feature

I still have trouble sleeping,

got a script for Ambien, 5 mg,

doesn’t do much, take it anyway

but I have a new routine.

Lately when finally getting to sleep

the dreams are outstanding, vivid,

as though they were well-written

technicolor full-length features.

Midnight, I walk into the bedroom,

like I’m walking into the theatre,

pull down the sheets, fluff the pillow,

get in next to you, imagining

I’ve gotten you a fountain coke,

dealt with the ticket taker,

walked down the hall and up the steps

to the middle of the back row.

Deciding which side is best to breathe on,

what to do with hands and elbows,

and how to navigate with the knees so,

they don’t put any pressure on one another,

becomes the same as adjusting the seat,

watching the popcorn and coke commercials,

and half-heartedly getting comfortable

enough during the coming attractions

that I can turn everything off, relax the parts

so that we can get to tonight’s main attraction,

hopefully a double-feature, five,

maybe six hours of rare movie fare.

Hoping to remember when our feet hit the floor,

we leave the theatre, put the keys in the Keurig,

coffee our way awake,

struggling already to recall

the merits of that stellar production,

knowing that had I put that pad on the night table

as you suggested, I could have scribbled it all down,

in four line, properly punctuated run-ons.

Photo of Craig Kirchner

BIO: Craig Kirchner is retired and living in Jacksonville. He loves the aesthetics of writing, has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels, and has been nominated three times for a Pushcart. Craig's writing has been published in Chiron Review, Main Street Rag and dozens of others. He houses 500 books in his office and about 400 poems on a laptop; these words help keep him straight. Craig can be found on Bluesky.