The Funeral
 
At the gym, he waved me over, and when I replied
“No, I’m not going” he cocked his liver-spotted head
to the left, mouth, now opening and closing
like a fish wanting back in the pond—as if my
declaration forced him to unstitch the previous
eleven seconds, his pupils dilating, unfocused,
but now fixing on some obligation lurking ten
feet behind my head.

I’m done with funerals.

What duty do I have to someone on the job
for twenty-five years, who wrote only blank pages
of conversation? Colleague? Co-worker? Associate?
Someone who rebuffed all intimacy, as if
children, spouses and beer didn’t exist.

Glancing at a now vacant weight-bench, I tried to reel
him back in—“We weren’t any kind of friends you know,
just two people who worked on the same floor for years.”

 
Will You Buy My Book?

Welcome to the reading tonight by John Buck,
who needs no introduction. John will you say
a few words to start us off?

“I write mostly in blank verse, trying to
capture the luxury found in everyday
actions and experiences.

will you buy my book,

my writing is metered but not formal,
no sonnets, cinquains or villanelles.

will you buy my book,

favorite subjects are birds, flowers, kids,
relationships, and running, sometimes
I combine all four,

will you buy my book,

And I’d like to end my introduction by
thanking my host, Jane Smith, for this
invitation, and all of you for attending,

will you buy my book,
will you.
Will you please?”