Hours of War

You walk through me

to remind me you’re there

I pour cheerios in my

bowl and drop two on the floor

You’re back and I’m wiping

your spit off my face

I open the fridge and

there’s no milk

You mock me in my ear

and jab my side with your nails

I eat the cereal dry with my fingers

in my over-sized work clothes

You kick my shins and push

your thumbs under my eyes

I glare at the TV hating you

and loving you somehow

You know I am lost and

I’ve accepted that now

Secret Story: Great Mistaken Society

The sign says “Sale”—I just have

to stop. The mom is wearing

white shorts and an old baseball

cap. The little girl in pink crocs is

selling dozens of sugar cookies.

I half-smile choking on a “Good

Morning.” I have a fetish with

pretty feet and shotguns. Sadly,

this sale has neither of those. I’m

shocked, I guess, to find a fire bird

stuffed animal in the 25 cent box.

Around the next table is a halter top

with a sticky note on top. The note

says, “Hand crocheted by my late

grandmother.”

That comment is too far. Boys like

average, skimpy girls who wear old

dirty pearls. I bet that grandmother

was blind which makes this sale

kind of blue and haunting. 

Presidential Sheep

I detest you more than—more

than the number six hates seven.

I have become a gawky doll

sitting in a dusty collection.

I’ve covered you from the

world, but the snakes of this

town have search you out.

I stand with one leg on the

northern hemisphere and the

other on the southern. The equator

separates us at the mouth. You

had icy white wings while I

stood under an apple tree in

4 inch rain showers. Beloved, I

once called you, but that is all

nonsense now. I am still that

doll in that collection that has

lost all sympathy for the wicked.

I’m an animated crane machine

exhausted by your crushing legs. 

Brighter Conspiracy

We live in the old country with
the old men and sticky floors.

There are white aprons getting
our refills on coffee and we

thank them not looking in
their eyes. This isn't the Ukraine

this is the flat country. Women
stand on intersection sidewalks

with signs that say words
like help, food, or single.

This isn't Chicago—we are
incompatible states pressed

together in a large foil can.
We are proud of black leather

jackets and sneakers with lyrics
on the soles. We agree to disagree

on sanitary public restrooms. Honestly,
we all want a gracious waitress, but

we aren't always that lucky. I
mean to say we aren't all that special.

"October 29, 1996" Joe Wenderoth

Sometimes there's no coffee in the coffee. I plow through

it and it is definitely a coffee area, but there's no coffee in it.

I always think they'll be a little at the bottom of the cup,

but there never is. If it's missing at all, it's all missing. The

fact is, coffee isn't just a substance--it's an event, and its 

manifestation depends on countless subtle conditions, most

of which are not speakable.

First Submission...

I just submitted three poems to the Baltimore Review...

"Individual Maze"
"Deep Sea Speed"
"Popular Tricks"