Tag Archives: Steve Klepetar

Steve Klepetar

Austin Street

We went to see the blind man juggle
in the middle of Austin Street

where he stood in moonlight,
a figure in a dream, until the police

led him away, skipping into the night,
an actor torn from a comic film.


Steve Klepetar has spent the pandemic pretending to study calculus and preparing to try out for the Olympic Reading Team.


 

 

Steve Klepetar

Wraiths

It’s possible to see them
if you lean out the window
and hold your glass just so,

but even then, they remain
wrapped in fog
that billows from the sea,

so what you perceive,
if you see anything at all,
might be a shade of a shade,

a little movement at the edge
of darkness, a streetlight
reflected against icy trees.


Steve Klepetar has spent the pandemic pretending to study calculus and preparing to try out for the Olympic Reading Team.


 

 

Steve Klepetar

Swallow Island

I heard the horses nicker,
saw them gallop across the field
just as rain began pelting down,
and I thought of you then,

your long hair and your eyes,
how you would have loved
the sight of those wet beasts
kicking up mud as they raced for home.


Steve Klepetar drives a sixteen year old Toyota Avalon, which he hopes to pass on to his granddaughter in about two years.


 

 

Steve Klepetar

Poker Face

Beneath our enchanting facial expressions
the skull always waits, poker face.

Tomas Transtromer

It holds eights and aces,
lingers awhile over the last
bet as the pot swells,

ice clinks in the glasses,
cigar smoke curls,
and in the background

a soft guitar, a woman
singing about the endless road.


Steve Klepetar’s granddaughter Lizzy has a favorite Jane Austen novel, and he’d like you to try and guess which one.


 

 

Steve Klepetar

Glowworms

A man plays trumpet
on the Third Avenue
platform, while the crowd

swirls around him
and my mother growls
“I’d pay him not to play,”

his notes glowing
in the black tunnel
like glowworms on a summer night.


Steve Klepetar’s sons have forgiven him for chasing them around the house reciting the opening lines of the prologue to The Canterbury Tales.


 

 

Steve Klepetar

Monopoly

My cousins built green houses, red hotels,
I bought a railroad or two,

and then my aunt came in with cookies,
but they were burnt,

so we crumbled them in our fingers,
dropped an offering to the scattering birds.


Steve Klepetar has never completed a game of Monopoly.


 

 

Steve Klepetar

My Old Life

As night
falls
I leave
my body,

float out
to sing
with frogs,

but when
I return
the house
is burning,

my old life
smoldering
in smoke and ash.


Steve Klepetar writes one-sentence poems (and sometimes two- or three-sentence poems) in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, and he watches the money roll in.


 

 

Steve Klepetar

Cities of the Plain

You peer back toward the cities of the plain
where you smell the smoke
of their burning, watch white ash fall among pines


Steve Klepetar plans to watch the presidential election returns with a towel over his head. (We are planning to spend election night just staring at the towel on Steven’s head.–The Eds.)