Jennifer Poteet

Barbara

Behind the dog grooming college,
a diner faces the highway.
Neon letters D and N sizzle
in a rusty sign.

An auburn-haired waitress
with serviceable legs
pours coffee in the mugs
of three potbellied cops.

She wears the veneer
of the linoleum floor.
Has been walked on just as much.
Men here call her "honey"
but sometimes they slip
and use the names of their wives.

At night, when lovers
reach for each other,
she counts the till,
fills the sugar dispensers
in the same uneventful way
that she applies lipstick
and, on occasion, a little rouge.

Meet the Family

Please excuse our incontinent dog.
Let me introduce you to my manic brother.
He throws his paintings into the attic.
See how they pile up, six deep.
On Sundays, aunts and uncles
come to the house
suited, pressed,
on different prescriptions.
We argue about abortion
over veal scaloppini.
Mother gets depressed.
Orders rhinestone handbags from QVC.
Father smokes cheap cigars.
Burns the furniture.
Grandma tells me "You've had enough chardonnay",
then asks if I'll pour her a glass.

In Absentia

Wes flies his drunk tonight
over hills, land mines,
Mekong water.
In the Lockhaven Buckshot,
he tells old stories
to young men.
They laugh at his jokes,
admire his tattoos,
drink his rounds of Rolling Rock.

Eyes look away
when he talks about a hellhole heat,
the stink of rotten cabbage,
dead villagers.
Wes orders a new round
but the boys have disappeared.

He staggers home to a single bed,
damp sheets.
A bottle of brandy waits
like a lady on the mattress.
Wes pours a little truth,
surrenders again into something
that resembles sleep.
It comes in early morning
over the whirr of chopper blades.