By: Phillip Parotti

The Skateboarders

Here they come, the apostles of speed,

Street brats in worn out baggy pants,

Scattering profanities like cigarette butts

Between old women with quivering knees.                       

 

Recession

Last days in the copper pit,

Afternoon games and iced cold beer,

Languid girls at rest in the sun,

Comfort we were not born to find.

 

The mines closed, the hoppers empty.

Spent smelter smoke the color of money

Flops breathless on the furnace floor

Mocking the face of maturity.

 

Vietnam Veterans

When Our Boys went off to war,

It was our job to wave flags,

Those of us still in short pants,

Those of us too young to know.

We built bunkers in hedges

Up and down Pine Avenue,

Aimed toy rifles at the Nazi foe,

Crafting illusions

That exploded in our faces,

Not so very long ago.