Sunday, July 6, 2014

Michael Estabrook- Three Poems


I hear the drilling and grinding
in the next room
can almost smell it
while the dentist endeavors
to be calming, encouraging, conciliatory even
her little voice trying to cooperate
between the high-pitched whining
of the torture device.
But her fear comes seeping through
loud and clear
and I’m holding myself back
from barging in there and beating the crap
out of the fucking bastard
for hurting my girl.

The Sun

Visiting his old home town
decades later
he’s been dying to drive by old
Smith’s Orchard & Pig Farm
and the ice cream stand
he worked at
those summers so long ago.
But it’s gone now
all of it replaced
by an endless housing development
full of big houses in neat rows
all uniform and clean shining
in the bright sun
which makes his eyes water too.


He doesn’t watch the news
because it’s awful, sad, frightful
and frightening, depressing
and mindlessly redundant
and most of the “anchors”
are clueless idiots
more concerned
with their own celebrity
than reporting the news.
Although many of
the “newswomen” are pretty
some even have long legs
and cute bottoms.

Michael Estabrook is a recently retired baby boomer poet freed finally after working 40 years for “The Man” and sometimes “The Woman.” No more useless meetings under florescent lights in stuffy windowless rooms. Now he’s able to devote serious time to making better poems when he’s not, of course, trying to satisfy his wife’s legendary Honey-Do List.

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