Matt McGee

THE LIMBO LOT

 

The parking garage is loaded

with them, discarded yet employed men,

pressing remote alarms on Town Cars,

Escalades, small compacts of all brands.

Some wear suits, shirts & ties, and approach

the terminal with the names of strangers

written on cardboard signs.

 

Del’s customer has texted; her flight

has just landed, she’ll soon de-board

and hop in the backseat of his Mazda

for a small and reasonable fee. But today,

he’ll be slow rolling up to the curb. He’d

been sitting quietly when white beams of late,

hazy afternoon sun cut through the stanchions

of the parking garage, shafts dusted by a mixture

of early fall-time haze and jet fuel. He’ll catch up,

but first he wants to know where those beams

are going, who they're shining on, and if

there's still a ray or two left over.

 

 

Mothballs

 

The smell hit me the moment

I stepped foot in the house and inhaled.

 

In a warm September some things can’t be hidden

Just by tossing them into the kitchen trash can.

 

We’re all afraid of getting older

Some of us even plan for it. Most don’t and think:

 

‘That’s alright, worse comes to worst

I can just take myself out behind the barn’

 

But these little stopgaps where we relinquish our pride

Thinking no one will notice, just our little secret

 

The little tuck here, the injection there

The lift here, here and definitely here

 

Is nothing compared to the stench of reality

Emanating from an unemptied trash can

 

And the adult diaper you’d never admit but

Just hide the pack in back of the closet

 

Until a bout of gout that wouldn’t let you walk your shame

Out to the trash can in the ventilated garage.

 

‘I’m so old I’m pissing my pants on a regular basis,’

You say, ‘couple times a week now,’

 

And I tell you not to worry. At your age,

Half your childhood friends are already buried

 

And the others are so old

They’re shittin mothballs

 

So we agree: from now on we’ll keep the trash can

Outside, where only the possums and squirrels will know

 

Because you can’t pull anything over

On good ol’ Mother Nature.

 

 

 

THAT INDOMINABLE SPIRIT

 

McCleary ran for city council.

For three months, his family name

was splashed across the city as a rash

of red signs, banners and flyers. That winter

McCleary was a household name

and a printer’s best friend.

 

And when the votes were all counted

McCleary lost, left only with a $50k debt

and a city ordinance that dictates

candidates have seven days to remove

every sign, poster and banner

or face a special loser’s fine.

 

McCleary dispatched

his few remaining minions

on a city-wide scavenger hunt.

In late July, on the way to JC Penney,

his wife spotted a faded campaign sign

atop the sloping backyard of a foreclosed home.

McCleary looked up, nodded, and said “leave it.

This way they’ll know who’ll be back

Come next September.”