No fish story (for Amy)

I am not
fish6carping here
from poet’s perch;
people often find my
reel, romantic tale fishy

Love is like shooting fish
in a barrel – this I have known
for long I have been one with the
proverbial oaken-casked floundererfish8

I am no fish out of water here
nor do I have any other fish to fry
there are, I know, other fish in the sea
but I have my catch; she caught me

you can take the bait on this:
looking for deeper meaning
in my metaphors is a
fishing expedition

loving her has
always been
easy: shefish2
lured,
I bit

hook,
line,
sinker

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2016
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

The Letter

IMG_20160819_180012Dear Grandchildren:

There is irony in that the

last thing you will ever forget

will be one of your firsts

crush

love

kiss

sex

broken heart

IMG_20160819_173909first to never be forgotten

first to stick with you

first to make you feel like that

first to make you hurt

first to make you feel alive

knowing that the firsts will

teach you the most

honor you the least

IMG_20160819_180312cause discomfort

provide perspective

be impossible to explain to others

yet explain everything there is to know

These things I tell you

because they are true

because I know

Love,

IMG_20160819_181546Grandpa

P.S.

Don’t tell your parents

you learned any of

this from me

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2016
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Customer

sitting at a yardsale1
rickety card table
a cloudy, droll
Saturday morning

yard sale boredom
broken only by
protracted
used appliance deal
negotiations
with dubious
dollar store
Trump-wannabees

dumping a half mugmorningglories2
of stale coffee onto our
cyclone fence-climbing
Morning Glories

a change-purse toting
fortysomething
housewife-financier
chides my wastefulness,
asks the price
of the empty mug

feigning indignancy
I proclaim my intent
is simply to keepmorningglories1
my morning glories
awake through the sale

Not quite skeptically
she asks candidly if
that really works,
musing on her own
crop of backyard
morning glories, her
caffeinated prospects
of keeping them awakecookiejar
longer on a daily basis

“Go easy on the cream”

I advise solemnly
heading inside for
a refill and Tylenol
making a mental note
to charge her
full price for the
cracked cookie jar

Mark Lucker

Hummel a few bars and they’ll fake it

carnal garden gnomes
filling my shelves with tchotchkes;
time to trim big leaves

Not a deep sleep

I used to have a dream where
I had won first prize in a
church raffle: lunch with God

where, over, thin-crust pizza,
I could ask him three questions.
I always lead with an inquiry
about why he made humans

“The hyenas” sayeth God,
as the waitress pours more wine,
“said I didn’t a sense of humor.”
“Guess you showed them, huh?”
replyeth I, with a nod

In my dream, God then laughs
uproariously – looking, for just a
moment like my late uncle Paul
(without salad stuck in his teeth)

This is where the dream always
ends, leaving me to ponder; was
it just a lame dollar-a-ticket raffle,
or am I not much of a dreamer?

A musing

You seduced me.

Drew me in
played me for the fool

and I bit
took the bait
tried to dart away
only driving the hook
in deeper

now here I am
at your pondering mercy;
throw me in your creel
fry me up
toss me back

let me swim away
or watch me flopping
for breath at your feet

Usually you throw me back.

I get bigger, bolder
still incapable of resistance
when the bright flash of
inspirational lure crosses
whatever path I am swimming

writer as languid, sassy bass
catch me if you can
catch me as you always do

catch-and-release is a
weak metaphor, considering
your use of live bait
and my less-than-persnickety
appetite for flashy, darting
things that shine

Throw me back.
Come again tomorrow.

Comfy

Certain memories are
a favorite pair of old slippers;
ragged, tattered, not much
to look at, but comfortable in
a way nothing new could be

once you plucked them from
the garbage; second thoughts?

hard to part, sometimes, with
a never-complaining old friend

then again, sometimes it’s best
to just let the dog chew ‘em up

Whether banes

You’ll never know
what might have been

you’ll never prove
what could have been

to loudly proclaim
what should have been

is the greatest of curses
self-inflicted by men

‘Bang. Bangbangbang.’

Middle age and being a
grandfather for the first time
finds me going back and
looking forward

reflecting on past errors,
omissions, miscalculations
and major ‘oopsies’ in

hand-mirror over-the-shoulder
Annie Oakley sharpshooter-style

without the gift of an eagle eye
or benefit of practicing good aim
I happily fire away

A philosophy. Of sorts.

I never do stand holding
umbrellas in lightning storms
or crowded elevators
though it may come as a shock

and I remain leery of men
who pair paisley neckties
with argyle socks

I never found it worth dating
a girl based on the reflection of
her patent leather shoes

and I am always wary of
gum-chewing Avon ladies sporting
fresh Harley Davidson tattoos.