Tag Archives: Steve Klepetar

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


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


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
I leave
my body,

float out
to sing
with frogs,

but when
I return
the house
is burning,

my old life
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.)


Steve Klepetar

A Green Country

We are dreaming this, listening
to flame as it eats wood
with its teeth and translucent tongue.

Steve Klepetar listens to Pandora while he walks in his nearly deserted neighborhood, glad not to explain why he wears a Yankees cap in Massachusetts.


Ian Willey

Strange Comfort

When my car died after a long
and debilitating illness everyone
said the same stuff about moving on
and you should be thankful for this,
that, and the other thing, except for
my neighbor, the one who’s always
driving over our lawn when backing
out, who put down his hoe and said
“so, what are you going to do about
all the oil spots on your driveway?”
and God do I love the jerk for that.

To get back home Ian Willey has to take a flight from Tokyo to Chicago and then transfer to Greensboro, NC, when the planes are flying.


Steve Klepetar

Night Sounds

I hear someone singing
a little way off,
the tune bouncing
off rooftops and walls,

and frogs, every voice,
every note clinging
in a rich stew of sound.

Steve Klepetar has read 7 dystopian novels in the past two weeks.