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.
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.
My Old Life
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.
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.)
Because our train was diverted
from its usual stop
we had a long walk
but we couldn’t find
the right house
so I had to ask directions
from a tall man
with a straw hat
and by then we were so late
I could hear search dogs
howling beneath the rising moon.
Steve Klepetar wanted to name his sons “Butch” and “Sundance,” but his wife wouldn’t let him.