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Michael Estabrook

 

while baby-sitting Brooke, our new granddaughter


Even though I am not
a Roman Catholic
I’d love to visit Vatican City,
bathe in the aura of
Michelangelo’s magnificent Sistine Chapel,
marvel at the art,
the innumerable ways of presenting
the Blessed Mother holding the baby Jesus,
meander with the multitudes
through the plaza and crypts.
Even thought I am not
a Roman Catholic
2000 years of contiguous papal history
is difficult to deny.
But I don’t know what all
this has to do with
the fact that poor little Brooke
cried so hard she threw-up
her breakfast all over her changing table
and her pretty new pink jammies.



Sophisticated as an Ensign

I pull my sweater down
to reveal my shoulder
so my friend could see
my tattoo: red roses on a bed
of glistening green leaves.
He furrows his brow, his eyes narrow.
“Isn’t it wonderful,” I beam.
“And romantic. Patti drew it
for one of my poetry books, but
I surprised her and put it on my body.
I have her art on my body,
pretty neat don’t you think?
and sophisticated.”
“Yeah, sure it is,” my friend says,
shaking his head in disbelief,
“Sophisticated as an Ensign.”



road turtles

I do wish trucks would stop blowing
out tires leaving shreds and lumps
of black rubber alongside
the highway. When you’re speeding along
at 50, 60, 70 mph these chunks
of rubber look like black turtles,
sitting along the side of the road
or sometimes even moving,
making me make a double-take thinking
the poor thing is about
to cross the road getting itself squished.
One time I even stopped
I was so sure that there was a real
turtle poised at the edge of certain doom.
I didn’t get out of my car,
I was smarter than that, but I did stop,
my hand grasping the door handle,
and stare before I realized
it was another annoying chunk of black truck
rubber. Of course this particular false turtle
wasn’t simply another hunk
of shredded rubber but instead
a deflated football looking more
like a turtle than normal,
so I guess I’m not a total idiot.

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