Some poems by Ace Boggess
Why I Write Poetry
Woman, attractive--blonde hair, soft-
hued gray-blue irises: beneath harsh yellow
bar lights, heavy shadows, those eyes
form two needles for pricking,
easing a local anesthetic under skin.
She sits near, maintaining the deadpan,
comedienne not laughing at her jokes.
Hands, tiny tools, stay sedate,
not once rising as props--a cup & scissors--
even as she describes her work day
cutting off testicles from Fidos, Spots.
Nearby women giggle while their men cringe,
swig from amber bottles, down shots
to dull the image, ache. Men cannot love
this woman, her charm & looks
the façades of haunted castles.
They want to escape, turn away
as if she has no offering for them.
They wish the hat back on the rabbit,
refuse to swing in close, smell her skin
or touch a finger to her lips in hush.
They slide from her reach, their hands
not crafting images in verse, their heads
seeking to forget her noirish songs.
What the Dead Do At Night
Practical jokes: they tap strangers on the back
then walk away--last night's man in black
she glimpsed though he wasn't there,
look of astonishment on her face
a sardonic death mask, surprised, disordered,
when I swore "no one touched me, no one
in a shroud passed by," & though I knew no truth
in what she saw, I stood at the bar wondering:
is this it? have I been marked? I said, "if I
dropped dead of a heart attack. . ." She said,
"it would've been funny, but it wouldn't,
if you know what I mean."