FROM MOMMA’S EYES
Ralph Greco, Jr.
Children flow into swiping sickle blades,
producing futile, acquiescing waves.
As the beast with the sharpened claws,
encourages participatory applause.
Mother pukes silent protest,
as Father imagines the future they protect.
At home Mother invents chores to occupy,
as his yellow slicker hangs, dripping dry.
SKELETON TOWN
Ralph Greco, Jr.
If I was an alien and had just landed here,
had had no human contact,
held to no human fear.
Would I experience the hollow dread, like the dread I now feel in my head,
as I pass the open cold framework
of Flushing Meadows’ World’s fair dregs?
Would I walk the great expanse,
over the L.I.E.’s concrete and Calvary’s graveyard bone-dance?
“Towards the sea”, “towards the sea”,
I’d spit with my alien tongue.
And soon be at the shore of Coney Island’s wooden fence rungs.
And I’d see that great dinosaur-Cyclone his name says-
mayhem and danger and wind-whipping red.
And I’d think what a wonder, such marvels here abound.
All these wondrous skeletons, live in just one small town!
THERE IS NO MYSTERY IN MY HOUSE
Ralph Greco, Jr.
I touch the cotton.
Sand escapes from my splayed fingers.
A pile of new dust gathers.
Not one drop touches my Reeboks.
I own a mandela.
I count the boxes.
Sun browns three frayed feathers.
Spider designs blind me.
I see nothing but the wall.
I own a dream catcher.
There is no mystery in my house.
FOR DONNA, TO SLEEP
Ralph Greco, Jr.
“Donna my Donna,” I managed, as she played her thin hand to my fevered brow (it really was ’fevered’)!
“Sleep, my little friend,” She whispered. “Sleep quiet and strong.”
Can a thousand unspoken words rest inside me?
So I dare imagine one solid night of rest?
Do I dare wake refreshed and able?
Do I dare, ever, in the briefest of seconds, imagine her mine?
GLIMPSES
Ralph Greco, Jr.
from the top down, but in no order of importance
errant finger of honey hair itching her forehead as she shucks a balance on her ten-speed
rosy chin quivering as she raises her head to lick September midnight rain
the vanilla ice-cream tunnel scoop of her 34B cleavage when she bends to scritch the dirty dog on his neck
a thick bare thigh and twist of the thong between her cheeks as she
arches to change jeans for sweats in the car on the way to the Tesla concert
the sweat from the back of her knee left on the back porch couch in
summer (not to mention the lines of ribbed markings cutting the back of her thighs)
a indecipherable Chinese symbol tattooed on her right ankle, exposed when her
three-inch clog lands on the first step of the bus
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