archives: tom mcdade
MUSIC
UNDER I-95
Under I-95, ferry parking
is ten bucks a day
and it should be
free like the music
from the attendant’s shack.
The songs swallow Gringo
tunes spilling out of cars
and touch the highway pillars
like architect fingers.
Some notes flick
a dandelion
that’s conquered
cement
to grow five
feet high.
The earth should
reel it in
and recreate
its jackhammer
ascension for
paying customers.
Layers of lyrics
are as thick as
humidity when
the attendant tambourines
his fat can of tips
bringing the concert
to a stop.
Spiraling decibels
pause at the weed
and that parking
lot man should grab
it by the throat
like an old-fashioned
mike and translate
the afternoon’s tunes
for Gringo gratuities.
© Thomas Michael McDade
BIG BILL’S
VEINS
Big Bill said no pain
compares with that
of varicose veins
and don’t ever make fun
of anyone Goddamn it
who has them.
It surprised me that Big Bill
had finally found something
in this world not worth
poking fun at.
And that a tough guy
like Big Bill
admitted to an ailment
that hit mostly women.
But he did love the ladies.
And then he lightened up,
said the zoo of snakes
inhabiting his legs
were as blue as his
old Air Force uniform
and as the eyes of one
particular lass
in London he used to romance.
Sometimes he’d mention
the doctor’s house
on Cottage Street
where we watered
down the paint
so much
that every time
you turned around
the blue was streaking
the white trim
like veins you
could wipe away
with the swipe
of a rag.
© Thomas Michael McDade
TOMATO SOUP
(For John Campbell)
Around the corner from a deli
where we’d seen a clerk
slice off a finger
an engineer
was assembling
a Campbell Tomato
Soup Machine
in an old warehouse
that was damp
and smelled like bootleggers
once brewed bad booze there.
We mostly buggy-lugged
parts for the guy.
I think he felt bad
giving us only a day
so he sent us to his house
where we moved filing cabinets
into an office in his cellar.
Then he made sheetrock
tapers out of us.
His wife was nosy
about our draft status
and acted like the walls
could take care of themselves
and our asses should be in Vietnam .
The son was fresh out of college
and thought out loud
that the payroll would be
better off without us.
After we got walking papers
we goofed on the way
he always said "thanky" when
his mother brought him coffee
or lemonade as if a kid
in soup commercial
or a farm boy PFC trying
to express his gratitude
to a Rest & Relaxation whore.
© Thomas Michael McDade
Thomas Michael
McDade lives in Monroe,
CT. His work has appeared in The Pawtucket Times and Big
Hammer. To email this writer, click here.
|
