Judgment

I was

one thing

to you only.

One thing.

How could I bear

the weight of

all you could

never see of me?

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

Old Red Farm Truck

If I were the old red

farm truck

I’d rust gracefully,

warm myself

in the sun

no matter

who was looking

or not looking.

I’d rumble through town

turning heads and

causing

classy kinds

to sputter,

gape and guffaw

at my sheer lack

of gloss.

I’d smell like tobacco,

oranges,

and tar—

even on Saturday nights

when I’d

idle slowly,

taking up more space

than they’d think

I ought to have,

and park

at the old drive-in

with Coke and popcorn

stuck to my seat

while somebody

kisses somebody else

for the first time,

forever.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

For Poetry Jam:  If I Were

Credible Hulk

Rounding the corner

I see him

and can tell

he wants to talk.

I pull

the earbuds

from my ears—

Hi, buddy.  How ya doing?  Having fun out here?

—Good!  Yes.

Seeing a pumpkin in his yard, I ask,

what are you going to be for Halloween?

—I’m gonna be

the ‘Credible Hulk!

Great choice.  We really don’t

have enough of those, you know.

His smile leaps up

like a grasshopper

and then he bounds away, too.

I replace the earbuds,

keep walking,

and whisper—

Godspeed, little man,

godspeed.

© 2014 Jennifer

A snippet of a conversation I had with a little boy I met as I was on a walk.  Of course he meant The Incredible Hulk, but the way he said it is so much better.  Smiles!

Everything

Photo © 2014 Jennifer Wagner

There are things we lost

in the flood

or after it

in the seeping, standing water

up past our hips.

It’s no use;

they’re gone.

Remember when

I told you

I thought

we weren’t strong enough,

maybe we

were too damaged

to make this work?

But you

only remember me saying

I’d stay

and let you try.

And for that

you’d give up everything, again,

because everything

means nothing.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

Trap Door

Brooke Shaden Photography

I have a demon for sale

but it will cost you

more than

you are probably

willing to pay.

It has already

bled me drier than a

dead president’s kiss,

and still I owe.

I go

to great lengths

to starve it,

try to keep it at bay—

this drunk dial

sober reality

I try wishing away—

close the trap door,

cut it off

at its legs,

squeeze-close

the cracks

in my armor, again,

from the fray.

Because

when you love

something broken

you break

and you break

and you break.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

For dVerse Poetics Grace offers us the work of conceptual photographer Brooke Shaden.

Note:  I took some artistic license with the word "trapdoor."  I separated it for dramatic emphasis, in case anyone was hung up on the spelling, ha.  But dictionary.com says it can be "trap door" too, so maybe it's okay anyway.  Thanks for reading!

wood smoke...

wood smoke

a flannel shirt

rests on the woodpile

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

For Carpe Diem: Cutting Wood

Things I Should Know By Now

Expect

rain.

Expect

something spilled

precisely

after mopping.

Expect

seven-year-old

to not have

brushed teeth,

even with several reminders.

Expect

twelve-year-old

to throw garbage bags

“at” outdoor garbage bin

instead of “in” it.

Expect

fourteen-year-old

to fret about being late

worse than

the White Rabbit.

Expect

dirty plates,

empty pizza box

where nineteen-year-old

“chillaxes.”

Expect

rain

again.

Expect

to be loved

despite words

I should not have said

regarding the above.

Expect

all

to repeat.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner