August 23-29, 2004: Michael Estabrook and V.M.

Michael Estabrook and VM

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Empty-nesting here in Acton, Massachusetts, with the last child off in college leaves me some time (between work and going to school myself) to finish about a thousand poems begun over the past couple years; also trying to get a real book of poems published, entitled “A Superlative Woman” (about my wife).

The following work is Copyright © 2004, and owned by Michael Estabrook and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

self-esteem “You need to get a big dog for your self-esteem,” Eddie says, after I mention I’m scared to death that our tiny terrier will be torn to shreds by the two gigantic, muscular ridgebacks living down the block My wife laughs at me, “They play fine together, dear Paul and I take long walks in the woods in the morning and they play fine together.” Her eyes have a funny glint, just to taunt me I hope Paul’s one of those golden boys, large and strong, an up- and-coming businessman with the shiny BMW, the vacation house on the Cape, the hefty stock portfolio, and cute little businesswoman wife who rides her exercise bike, jogs in the park on the weekends, and can’t cook to save her tight little ass But I still can’t stop the anxiety, worrying about poor little Spenser and what big Paul’s big ridgebacks may do to him one of these misty mornings as their master and mistress walk together in the steamy summer woods Maybe Eddie’s right, I simply need a bigger dog. Mrs Dalloway My wife leans over touches my arm ever so lightly “You’re a genius,” she says, her sweet breath warming my cheek Man that was right out of the blue “OK,” I laugh, “if you say so, but it’s because I married you.” “No, silly,” she shakes her pretty head and smiles “You’re a genius because you can read Mrs Dalloway.” Marc Campbell ”I had another dream about my wife and another man.” (Even after 30 years of marriage to this beautiful, wonderful woman, I am still insecure, fearful she will stumble upon a real man who likes football and golf, collecting tools and hanging around Home Depot ) ”It wasn’t as bad as some of the other dreams where she was kissing other guys, but it woke me up and kept me up for a long while.” Mike continues chewing his sandwich wondering why I’m such an idiot ”We were in some hotel lobby and she came out of this phone booth, sort of burst out of this phone booth, smiling very broadly, her face flushed She looked at me and said, ’Marc Campbell really likes me!’ then scurried off down the hall.” Mike says, ”Man, you really are insecure, but at least nothing graphic happened, I mean it could’ve been worse.” Yes indeed, it could have been worse In one dream I had she was making out with some guy in a car, pressed up against him, rubbing him In another dream she was sitting next to some guy in a sauna, red-faced and wrapped only in a towel, his hand Yes it could be worse, it can always be worse Later Mike sent me an email clearing up some confusion I had about a stupid powersaw he was buying, something as a ”man” I should already know He ends his email by stating, ”No wonder your wife likes Mark Campbell.” Ha, really funny I write back, ”It’s Marc Campbell damn you!”

Glendalough The dismal grey of the rain-soaked clouds hanging like dark veils over weary skies darken and subdue the lush power lurking in the thick green of the Wicklow Mountains The crowded bus rocks on its dirty wheels as it speeds along the tiny dirt road that snakes and curls around the ancient trees and empty stone churches The Glen of the Two Lakes appears cradling the abandoned monastery Craggy rocks and broken trails circle the pristine water What venerable history dwells beneath the surface of that sacred water? Lost to the echelon of pilgrims flocking for confirmation of the soul’s existence Too profane to pray among the headstones that rest beneath the round tower as modern life intrudes on the sacred graves of Saints and Sinners and The Unknown. Clandestine The night we crept Beneath the pine needled trees Through barbed wire and stinging nettles To the neighbours backyard A light mist falling on our skin Were they home? We didn’t care Stripped down to bare flesh We lay upon the Irish soil Grass in my hair as you entered me So cold — My mouth giving birth to tiny clouds with each exhale Your breath hot against my chilled cheek The dark of the rain obscuring your face in shadow Texture of soggy earth Beneath my body; Imprinted as the scars in my tortured memory Brief amnesty for anarchic love across an ocean of stars Isosceles All those things left unsaid twirl around us in the smoke of a shared cigarette Tobacco stained kisses her mouth on mine I stradle her, my hands on her waist Her breasts are softly pressed against my own I feel him watching us Later as his hands roam My body oil and kisses I remember the taste of her so sweet, so sweet The Evening News Gunshot stain on a tranquil town Fear locks the doors at night when once they were left open To strangers and neighbors alike to warm by hearth fires and share a kind meal Small town gossip frozen stiff and cold as the housewife corpse on a manicured lawn Bloodsoaked flower garden No one sleeps now No one smiles now No children playing No faithful praying Time stands still on the main street corner of a community in shell shock Caught unprepared for the grim reality of human nature. Post-Apocalyptic Picnic The table is set, my dear so drink up and we’ll laugh our cares away as the world burns down In shades of orange and ash, darkening the distant horizon We’ll dance along the radioactive reservoir so merrily Just you & I, my love and the cockroaches our guests A post-apocalyptic picnic.