Gene McCormick- Three Poems & Art

Point A To Point B

He always, year ’round, wears heavy dull black shoes

with thick black soles and heels

and when he walks his slouch-shouldered amble,

he deliberately puts the back edge of his heel

down first, and after what seems like

a second or two but could not be

anywhere near that long, down comes his sole

flat to the ground in an almost slapping manner.

His cuffed wool trousers droop halfway down

his shoelace eyelets, covering the bow,

the trouser seam breaking well above the ankle,

quivering with every step.

And that’s how he walks going from

point A to point B.

The Village Board Says NO

There is not a hint of commerce,

especially not a spaces-for-rent,

begging-to-be-abandoned strip mall,

in the village but it does boast

a flat-roofed, no overhang,

Saltine box-shape of a clapboard building

surrounded by dust and gravel,

the straight lines of the town hall broken

only by cubes of window air conditioners.

It could pass for a small town VFW club,

jerry-rigged rooms of plywood walls

and floors making navigating to the

meeting rooms as perplexing as the

catacombs of a neglected English formal garden.

The man from the village will spend

the next two hours here and is reminded

by a mind-flashing non-sequitur

that for a few minutes in Haiti even the dead

are considered important. This is not Haiti.

The board officials will have their

chest thumping moment while disregarding

frivolous diatribes from civilians;

the board is not comprised of Gandhi’s,

just a quorum of blotchy-faced pensioned

corporate suits feeding at the bully pulpit

but then it is not for the man from the village

to re-route ignorance or update

age-yellowed ordinances. He is in attendance

only to covet his neighbor’s wife.

Conch Shell Therapy

On unravel days when nothing makes sense

or can be trusted including the time of day,

he strips off his clothes, folds them

with the precision of a hospital attendant,

and lays flat out on the cool hardwood floor,

head sideways and ear pressed to the wood

to hear the crashing of the Pacific surf

and he does this with his eyes closed.

Should a sound other than water lapping

the beach be heard he opens his eyes

and if the day is taking a turn for the better

he will see the prow of her foot,

a set of vermillion-painted toenails

and if the day remains gray and dank

he will see the half inch thick

rubber edge of a black sole,

either resolution inches from his face.

Brief Bio: McCormick’s left ear is actually a conch shell found on a beach in Marathon, Florida.