~ Delta Poetry Review ~

Dave Malone

Dr. Abbott

Gaunt like the town pines she walks beneath,

she wears white blouses with tan slacks,

her casual wear on Fridays

back when she taught the classics,

and everyone called her doctor per her order.

After all, a former housewife saves

her grocery bill change, affords night school,

and wins a scholarship at an esteemed program—

without a doubt she earned the honorific.

Now, she flutters from sidewalk to sidewalk

like leafy pages in a Shakespeare volume

popping in the wind. If you stop her on the street,

she won’t lecture you on Hamlet

or wearing white after Labor Day

because she’s already forgotten the lesson

before it’s even started.

Shaconage

I drive within the Smokies.

My engine is perfect,

hums to tell me so.

Millions of moving parts

beneath that hood, fired

into the fifteen-foot chassis,

45 horse hands long.

The closer I get to home,

the thinner the knobs get,

sliding down the mountains

like rain. The fourth-to-the-last pass

yields no majestic view

or historical marker,

but if you pay attention

you feel what is there,

sunlight and fire,

the blue smoke

where you discover yourself

both lost and found.

Bury Me

Bury me on that hill

where the old farm lay,

where dusk fires orange

like a glowing lamp,

where the grasses

sport red tops

and the headstones wear gray.

Bury me on that land

the Confederates took.

Build a circle garden

round about my stone.

Promise to plant short flowers,

that won’t cover my marker

with a phrase I’ve yet to think of.

Promise you’ll trick me, promise

you’ll agree to pansies,

but sow lilies instead. Make them

stargazer or tiger. Let them crowd

out my legacy, my plans,

and dance a lifetime in the dusk.

Dave Malone is a poet and writer from the Missouri Ozarks. His newest poetry volume, Tornado Drill, is forthcoming from Aldrich Press in April. His poems have appeared in San Pedro River Review, Plainsongs, and Midwest Review.

Email: MaloneConsultingWP@gmail.com