Poetry by Rob Kempton

Matinee

What we do
in the kitchen light
dipping in bushes,

to stay human:
in thrift stores
for Marley Marl mixes.

Take pills and tchotchkes.
Listen for frogs.
If I seem to stir,

crack beer.
Tell the kids
the air feels crisp.

I’m melting.
You slip away,
making a day of it.

Neighborhood goons
pantsed me,
which afforded them

a matinee
for my big wooden
shelf.

Drunk with hope.
Thinking only of the garden.
Its hold over me.

What I Did

Sunday, swim night,
bare thighs glinting in the moon pool.

I go where her swimsuit
interjects. Some days

she puts out an affidavit on me. Others,
she’s a wax figure at dawn.

And I’m here in the grocery store light.
My investments plummet like a fridge.

Considering my inclination for disasters,
I’ve had a day of it,

jet skiing through the cathedral.
What’s more scintillating than pillow talk?

She crashed her dune buggy into my bed
with a dubious look, refusing my Caesar salad.

You get the vibe.
I told her

I had no idea what I was doing.

Rob Kempton

Twitter: @brutalisttruck
IG: @buffalowing66