five poems

by Craig Kirchner

Afternoon Sauté

Large pan, deep, decades of sauce and sausage

have simmered in this old friend.

Starts with extra-virgin, sweet, sweetened more

with thinly sliced white onion and thinner sliced

garlic, seasoned slightly with salt, pepper, that

helps the essence of the onion melt in the oil.

The room takes on a mediterranean aroma.

You are watching from the living room with a

favorite Pinot in your favorite goblet.

Carrot, red and green pepper, sliced carefully

with cutlery that you just sharpened. Basil,

oregano - the peppers soften, add the porcinis.

As the mushrooms cook down, splash with balsamic,

The browned sausage, sweet and hot, has cooled,

half are crumbled into the vegetables.

Alexa plays Billy Joel - bottle of red, bottle of white,

the mushrooms are releasing their liquid.

I sneak in, kiss your neck, steal a sip of wine.

You tell me it smells great, ready for tomatoes,

paste first, adds a new texture to the ragu,

then San Marzano plums, crushed slightly,

they’ll sauté themselves into sauce. As it melds

the rest of the sausage go back in, to flavor

the process, the simmer, the rest of the afternoon.

Alexa switches to Dylan and James Taylor.

We open a second bottle, you come in like Eve,

approaching the quince and wanting a taste.

Reminding you of the rule of don’t taste too early,

I slither over hip to hip, bring the spoon to your lips,

it is clear your horizon has opened to future defiance.

Breakfast and some news 

              at the Twin Kiss Diner

The booth was claustrophobic.

The sports section I held between us,

was like a volleyball net,

your stares lofting over,

like shots of fresh egg, I couldn’t spike.

When Alice came to take your order

and you looked at each other,

for the first time,

the silence was as thick as the coffee.

Twins – identical -

her perfect little body,

if her hair had been curled

and she’d had some cleavage.

I can’t remember who was

first to speak, probably me,

but then you ordered.

One egg, one sausage – one carb.

I felt I had to order two of something,

just on principle.

You ripped my ‘Post’ to shreds,

and smashed my reading glasses,

before you stormed out of the diner.

I wasn’t sure if it was the five sugars,

I snuck in your coffee, or my comment,

that your hang-ups were cultural.

Most likely, it was my suggestion,

we get together with the waitress,

when she was done her shift.

I stood four-eyed in front of the cash register.

Alice gave me six quarters change,

for a dollar, for a USA Today,

winked, cracked her gum,

lightly dragged her forefinger,

across her lower lip,

stuck out her studded tongue,

and walked back into the kitchen.

Cipher

Secrets become less sacred when wearing purple.

In youth they’re more damning, stifling,

you bite your nails and cuticles, lose sleep,

finally decide you have to tell your BF,

it was hanging like a purple fog, your aura

of overwhelmed when you walked in

You start the story and find yourself lying,

juxtaposing, ameliorating and you stop.

I’m just going to tell you straight up!

The story didn’t need enhancement,

the key was he cheated, it didn’t

matter how or with whom.

It was last Saturday night, I ran into her

at the End Zone, we had drinks.

She drinks Crown Royal neat, no ice

says she choked once on an ice cube,

We went back to her place, it was

like the house on the hill.

There’s a sign on the door says FREDA’S,

who does that right, you don’t even

put your name on the mailbox.

Anyway, she says pour yourself a drink.

“I’m going to put on something more

appropriate, more comfortable.”

After about ten minutes she tells me

to come into the chamber, not the bedroom

the chamber, she’s on the floor.

She takes a second shot of oxygen,

adjusts her thigh-highs, wiggles her ass,

and pushes her shoulder blades,

farther into the ell of floor and wall.

She has on fishnet gloves and her hands

are as busy as they could be in that position,

she exhales, suggests that we switch roles, and

I took off my socks, wondering what could be next.

I can’t tell you the rest, but I cheated.

Well maybe you could apprise a priest,

you know confess, tap it out in morse over drinks,

anything to make you feel absolved,

but then you need to come to that

who really cares moment pick up the pen,

tell the pad, finish the story, make it a legacy.

NewDay

It’s Thursday again, she whispered -

and I’m thinking, yeah, once a week,

but it was the tone,

OMG, what’ll we do, tone.

First, I laughed, then,

I seriously considered agains.

Hurricane season, B-12 shot,

Thanksgiving, Morning Joe,

dental visits, colonoscopy,

emptying the dishwasher,

great sex, Bogos, Trump,

birthdays, coffee of course, and Covid.

I awake again - it’s a run-on sentence,

the list above with no editing,

one step closer with poor punctuation.

Before, after, now, the on-going story

loses context without an again,

they are the glue, the texture.

I need to move on though,

maybe call it Newday,

stick it in on the weekend,

avoid cliches and further-mores,

celebrate it by toasting yesterday,

feast on a glazed, roasted tomorrow.

Salad Days

I’m reading the Bard,

Cleo is pondering her relationship with Caesar.

“My salad days when I was green in judgement.”

My salad days flash, initially -

Monday, tossed, Wednesday, Greek,

Friday, Caesar, probably with fish.

Immature and submissive perhaps,

but Cleopatra was a sexual predator capable

of seducing the most powerful man on the planet,

twice, graduating to manipulative with Anthony.

Jumping back to my youthful green days

of carefree innocence, inexperience,

incompetence and missed opportunity.

A redo would see no competition,

because no one in the neighborhood

had even a clue.

Providing pleasurable experience

with no demand or reward,

would have given the whole world,

Egypt, the Roman Empire,

but more specifically high school

a completely new dynamic –

would now make reading the Bard,

reminiscing instead of contemplating. 

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, The Modern Artist and dozens 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.