Gene McCormick- Three Poems

Red Umbrella In The Rain

 

Impressive, a round umbrella

spanning one-and-a-half people

as shelter from pattering rain.

And red! Not bright red, but red

with deep scalloped edges arched

like tunnels and tines arcing

to the apex of such tunnels.

It speaks élan with its circumference,

red covering, ebony shaft

and highly-grained wood handle.

 

Sidewalk passersby make do with small

fold-up black polyester umbrellas,

some with prints of ducks or fish;

a few hold a soggy newspaper overhead.

Hoodies are raised and tied.

 

In a jostling crowd the red nylon disc

is safe harbor,

keeping things as they are not.

 

 

Rite Of Passage

 

Landscape crew arrives first week in May,

not to sculpt the yard or do plantings

but to clear winter’s fallen debris

and mow the yard, turned from brown

to green and patchy dandelion yellow.

Sweaty hands, some with fingers missing,

reach for the offer of cool bottled water.

English not spoken; smiles and nods.

 

Push mowers haven’t been used in the

neighborhood for decades, not for trimming,

not for nothing.

Everything is motorized, gas fueled,

taking a tenth or less the time

of manual equipment at 10x the noise

as the  harbinger of spring

stamps an old man’s rite of passage:

grass and time is short.

 

Power equipment loaded on the rickety trailer,

the crew drives off, engine oil smoke

covering the scent of new mown grass.

Good while it lasted.

 

 

Center Stage

 

Walking up and down the short sidewalk

in front of the library,  she’s on her cell phone

holding a sheet of white paper in her

free hand. She looks down, straight ahead,

talks continually, nodding and smiling.

What’s up with the paper?

Waving it for emphasis, the breeze

blows it about her wrist but she doesn’t let go.

Tired of pacing, she sits on a bench designed

to be uncomfortable but she has some padding

so keeps the cell conversation going,

wafting and shaking the paper,

looking absently across the parking lot.

What is she doing with the sheet of paper?

The sheet would blow off if she

were to set it on the bench so she

squeezes it between thumb and forefinger,

occasionally resting her hand in her lap.

She is wearing Bermuda shorts

and her legs are pale. So are her arms.

Her face is, too.

 

As the late summer temperature cools,

she gets up, an imprint from the bench

on the back of her thighs below her shorts,

ends the conversation and folds the paper

twice, sticks it in her back pocket

and walks off.

 

 

 

BRIEF BIO: Gene McCormick is a child prodigy who recently celebrated his sixth birthday. He cried when he couldn’t blow out the half-dozen trick candles, but became very happy when his nanny gave him a birthday spanking.