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Dave Bacharach
waiting
behind a dumpster
in the dark
I squeeze forty quarters
and hope that he's alone
carrying rocks
to the pile I pause,
catch my breath,
and watch her work
in the garden
when they
cut out his throat
she nursed him--
a dying poet
with no voice
whoever
drove the car
that hit this
Great Horned Owl
is forgiven
did I thank the man
who picked me up years ago
when I hitchhiked drunk
on pay day, and drove me home,
I still wonder
I leave her place
and see a man waiting
where I once waited
for some other man
to leave her place
they put me
on a machine that took
the fingers
of the man before--
me, who's all thumbs
a mandarin
his retainers behind him
sits upon a cushion
and gazes over the valley,
on Rick's Auto Parts calendar
trading
whiskeys and beers
with a guy
tougher than me--
he thinks so too, I guess
each rock
I carry to the pile
is different
each trip has its perils
I place them carefully
the cat
skirts the lilies
by walking
along the rocks
at their edge
she cries
when someone talks
suicide
and worries about
my insensitivity
they find her dead
propped in the free chair
eyes wide open
surrounded by twenty
years of newspapers
on Memorial Day
I load the forty-five
my father brought back
and plink at empty bottles
of Japanese beer
Dave Bacharach was
born in 1950 in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Although new to haiku and
tanka, he has an extensive background in English and American literature.
A member of the Word Haiku Club, the Haiku Society of America, and the
Tanka Society of America, his haiku have appeared recently in
tempslibres and Full Moon, and two of his tanka in Ribbons.
He lives in
a rural area of New York State with his beloved partner, Mary. By day,
he manages a large bus garage; at night, he writes poetry and practices
the saxophone. His tanka are unique in their distinct reflection of a
working man's life and urban environment.—Michael McCormick
Copyright
2005: Simply Haiku |
