two poems

by Bob McAfee

Riding the Worm

My eighty-third birthday. This is the hotel from Hell. Single

elevator out of service for four days now. Walking up the stairway

to my fifth-story room I pass an obese woman occupying

most of the width of the stair, squeezing by her as she sits,

humming and staring, unmoving, with no particular place to go.

Back in my room, I try to grab some sleep but I keep hearing

a large dog barking and the voice of a man screaming at a woman

who tries to calm him down but he is high and angry and cannot

be assuaged. My suitcase lies open on the dresser top, its contents

visible to my naked eyes: blue and white checkered shirt, faded blue

jeans, red neckerchief, Stetson hat. Don’t need no shoes and socks.

They will shave me with a straight razor, wash and brush my hair.

I will be a handsome dude. Now I’m seventeen. We are in the back

seat of my old Ford, making out, when she urges me to do it

and I can’t or maybe I am just afraid so we break up and I see her

a few years later and she has a baby and by now I’m married

to somebody else but I think about her in the back seat for the rest

of my life. Just turned thirty-five. This one I meet in a road race,

like the way she looks in short shorts and a singlet, we date for a while

until she gets bored with me; ironically, she is not in it for the long run.

Lying naked on the bed, sweat pouring out my body and the air conditioner

churning out acrid smoke and very little relief, Dr. Death sings again

and I feel the vibrations starting below ground as the great worm turns

and struggles downward. I’m donning my Stetson and my spurs. Fine day

for a ride. Back in the saddle again. Wearing chaps and chap stick

on Rodeo Day at the hotel from Hell. Relatives will be called to ID the body.

Bakersfield Alluvial Blues

You wear your clammy sweatshirt,

rag-wool mustard braids,

seedy thighs voluptuous. I’m roadkill,

Baby, and oh so easy to persuade.

You are pernicious, a little stoned,

and I’m a soup can wreck.

Licorice spider girl, you got your plush

claws around my neck.

On your feet some fake fur slippers,

on your mind a conjured trance.

I’m a docile donkey, Love, jack-hammer

with a sump-pump in my pants.

We are collapsed romantics. I’m neither

turnip nor priest, but when I feel the flicker

of your tongue, my Boston whaler goes to sea,

my oars are roiled. I nibble at your brackish lips –

my socks are boiled. As we saunter toward

fulfillment, in my throat a freighted lump.

Creaky turns to percolate, rake to break,

and finally the severed hyacinth of hump.

Photo of Bob McAfee

BIO: Bob McAfee is a retired software consultant who lives with his wife near Boston. He has written nine books of poetry, mostly on Love, Aging, and the Natural World. For the last several years he has hosted a Wednesday night Zoom poetry workshop. Since 2019, he has had more than 80 poems selected by over thirty different publications. His website, www.bobmcafee.com, contains links to all his published poetry. www.bobmcafee.com