five poems
by Jeffrey Zable
SMOKE IT
Yes, I am proud to be me, but I don’t identify with the human race.
I wouldn’t mind if most of humanity went somewhere into space
and never came back.
Of course I have friends whom I care about enough to water their plants,
and would loan them money for a hamburger if they forgot their wallet
and cellphone.
But no, there’s no one I’d risk my life for with the exception of my wife,
who’s really the only person that I ever loved.
And now you can stuff that into your pipe and smoke it…
FRETTING
I’m someone who frets about everything.
Doesn’t matter what it is. Put it in my mind
and it goes straight to the fretting area.
No need to mention all the things that fret me,
but I will say that I’ve seldom been able to follow
the great sages who say there’s no reason to fret
about the future ‘cause it seldom turns out the way
we fear it will. And to fret over the past is a complete
a waste of time and energy.
I know they’re right and yet no matter how hard I try,
I just keep fretting about everything, and probably will
until my mind can no longer think— which makes me fret
just thinking about it.
THE COMMERCIAL
I’m watching/listening to a commercial while waiting for the news
to come on—this, even though I promised myself to either change
the channel or hit the mute button whenever commercials are on.
Presently, there’s a 60-year-old woman raving about some anti-aging cream
that makes her skin look thirty years younger.
As I continue to watch, I think to myself that for a 60-year-old woman
she really does look great, and then wonder if the stuff would work
just as well on me.
Feeling a bit guilty and foolish for even considering this, I flip
to another channel and begin listening to the bad news of the day…
FLUTTERING
Every time a woman with a nice pair of buttocks bends over,
it makes me flutter. Why this happens consistently, I really
can’t be sure,
I admit it’s been going on since I was around three years old—
which means that it’s been occurring for 70 years now.
And no, I haven’t worked on this aspect of myself
in psychotherapy, nor have I mentioned it directly
to my therapist, but he certainly knows that I revere
the female body and that this is an integral part
of who I am.
And no, again, I’m not going to apologize to anyone
for being this way, nor am I ever going to show
this poem to my wife who might take it the wrong way,
and then I’ll have more problems than I already do. . .
COLD CALL
Receiving a call on my landline from some realty guy, he says,
“I heard that you’re interested in selling your house. Could you
please answer some questions. . .”
“Listen man, I don’t know where you heard such information,
but since you’re interested. . . I’ve been in this house for fifty years.
I’m going to die in this house. . . can’t say exactly when it’s going
to happen but it will sooner than later. When I do go, I have no idea
whether my wife—who’s twenty years younger than me—will want
to stay or not. Maybe she’ll want to sell it and go someplace else.
You’re welcome to check back for an update in around in ten years
from now.”
“If I’m still around, I’ll do just that!” he says in a serious tone,
before hanging up the phone. . .
Photo of Jeffrey Zable
BIO: Jeffrey Zable is a teacher, conga drummer/percussionist who plays for dance classes
and rumbas around the San Francisco Bay Area, and a writer of poetry, flash-fiction,
and non-fiction. He's published five chapbooks and his writing has appeared in hundreds
of literary magazines and anthologies, more recently in Uppagus, Ellie, Beach Chair,
The Paradox, Hot Pot, First Literary East, The Raven's Perch, Part Two, and many others.
His selected poetry (from Androgyne Books) will be out soon.