New Poetry

On Moments of Arrogance

“Are you always such an arrogant putz?
Most people don’t appreciate it.”
Maybe I am, but
I’d never say that aloud.
Most people wouldn’t appreciate it.

It’s an arrogant thought, but
arrogance isn’t hubris.
The word though, it’s a
conversation-stopper. Mutually destructive,
a social dirty bomb
slithering in multisyllabic pride straight
to its target.
The speaker keeps it
hidden
in a briefcase, or backpack, or shoes then
“Arrogant putz” and
we’re both on the floor
reduced to writhing monosyllables:
proud and putz.

We’ll both get up,
but the ether us in the space between our
internal shouts are permanent shadows:
stretched tall, hand-to-hand, either grappling or dancing over
some surface I can’t see.



Breaking In

Stephen, I want to break into your house.
I’m sitting on those stone steps,
your porch, I guess, considering
climbing over, or around or maybe straight up,
onto your roof, and jumping into the pool,
but maybe I’ll knock a cinder block off
how you did, and bruise my knee.

I’m not sure if your parents are home,
or what they’ll do if they see me,
or even really, who they are without you.

Stephen, I want to break into your house.
I’m sitting here, wondering where that
invisible line

is.
Which side of the clearly wooden gate?
Or did it follow you?
Is it on vacation too, too far away from me?

I can’t find that invisible line.
I can’t find the limit or the definition.