Mike and Me
Our beds were so close, we could jump between them.
There were four drawers under the mattresses.
Mike’s glow-in-the-dark skeleton shined all night above his bed.
It wore a black cape and talked to me in a dream.
To hold our clothes, there were four drawers each.
Mike taught me how to spit-shine my shoes.
The skeleton wore a black cape and talked to me about Doomsday.
Mike had something in his hand that he wouldn’t show me.
We shined our shoes on the rug between our beds.
We both went to military school during the day.
Something in his hand Mike wouldn’t show me.
Our Mom made him take down the skeleton.
We stayed home but went to military school.
Mike had a career in the Army.
Our Mom made him take it down.
After a while Mike moved to the basement.
Something in his hand was dark and edgy, like slate.
Our beds were so close we could jump between them.
After a while Mike moved to the basement.
Mike’s greenish glow-in-the-dark skeleton shined all night.
Associate Pastor
The old lady in the back of church scowled at me.
The day I wore a green, sponge rubber clown nose at Mass
I fell in love with a young mother of four.
The pastor was an overweight workaholic.
I wore a clown nose on Saint Patrick’s.
We danced on the edge of disaster; met secretly for lunch.
The pastor was always at a meeting, eating, or falling asleep.
It was an emotional affair.
We met secretly for lunch.
“You’re going to be okay,” said the old lady.
It was an emotional affair.
I heard every one of their confessions.
The old lady said I was going to be okay.
The pastor said I danced too much at the social.
I heard every one of their confessions.
I wore the Roman collar only at funerals.
My workaholic pastor said I danced too much.
The old lady in the back of church smiled at me.
I wore a tong depressor every day around my neck.
I fell in love with a young mother of four.
Looking for Someone
The dry grass tinder ignition.
He decided to remain incognito
at the heart of an impenetrable mystery.
Better to be wise then surprised.
He decided to remain incognito.
The switchbacks went up and up, forever.
Better to be anxious than depressed.
He was afraid of drowning.
Up and up the switchbacks went
about four miles, start to finish.
He was afraid of nothing
and dreamed of pork chops and apple sauce.
About four miles, start to Finland
as the wind dropped embers on the ridge
pork chops and apple sauce.
It was, after all, unconditional.
Ignited, benighted, confiscated, and then re-imbursed.
The dry grass became Tinder and Instagram.
Left with one acre, one dare, and one care
he was the heart of an impenetrable mystery.
Jim Gunshinan has written on energy and the environment for nearly 25 years. He is currently enrolled in the MFA Creative Writing program at Dominican University in San Rafael, California, to feed his lifelong love of poetry. Recently, his poems have appeared in Tuxedo Literary Journal and One Day, a poetry anthology published by the Redwood Writers. Jim lives in Orinda, California, but grew up in Maryland and spent two decades living and working in Indiana. Jim holds BS and MDiv degrees from Notre Dame.
