SELECTED POETRY

by
JOHN VICK

STANDING ON THE BRIDGE

There is a raw-faced teenage boy standing on a bridge
in Southeast Oklahoma. It is just now dark
and he stands on the pedestrian walk and looks down
at what was once a rust colored muddy flow
now turned black, no reflection from the moon
which yet lights his acned face as yellow-orange
with mauve blotches in the temperate fall night.

He has a mother at home in a double-wide trailer
and a little sister named Rhonda-Lyn in third grade
at the Baptist school. He has a friend from the next
county and a few girls at school giggle in his direction,
but he is alone this night, standing in the moonlit darkness.

There is a raw-faced teenage boy standing on a bridge
and he wishes he did not live in the Oklahoma
countryside. He wishes he had smog, traffic, city buses,
trains. And masses of people around him to hide behind,
to watch back at as much as folks in his small town watch
him. He is not anymore unhappy at fourteen than other kids
in his hometown, but his sadness has been with him since puberty's
onset, and it has haunted his home's peace
for as long as his mother has heard him speak.

There is a raw-faced teenage boy standing on a bridge
who speaks little these days, save mention of a favorite
football team gone bad, a well-liked musician dead,
the years' gone loss of a family pet, or the lack of fish
in the pond down the dirt road that winds
through the low hills of scrub oaks. The desolate road
which encompasses the family's lonely possibilities,
in which his miraculous little sister thrives,
in which his mother shows crow's feet at thirty years,
and for him, which has become essence; circinate nakedness.

And the raw-faced teenage boy hero-worships
a police detective on TV, as his mother says,
but the boy knows that the worship in his thoughts
is the wrongest regard a man can have for another
and he is intent on escape from his hellish life -
to Hell even - as it could not be worse than his sights
from the green metal grill beneath his holey boots.

There is a raw-faced teenage boy standing on a bridge
in Southeast Oklahoma and he climbs over a high
railing as though to seek a better view. But there is no better view
of the water on this serene autumn night
than with a trolling light, which the boy does not possess.
He is possessed by rage against his self
and he is seeking calm, a mood to match the glorious
smell of the most excellent air of the year.
And the boy breathes in deep and exhales,
breathes in deep and exhales, then exhales again.

© John Vick

---

DADDY'S LECTURE ROOM

voices itself as playful dungeons of that time, yet it’s walls
are not black lacquer, but nicotine-stained red oak panels,
which speak from knots and splinters. The desk’s array
talks to me: bills need to be paid; he obligates

and I’m his captive: jaw juts, ears flex - grind of molars,
brown skin glistens, dark eyes avoid, whistle of “Maresy dotes
And dosey dotes,” announces. As with men of dark rooms,
I’m his captive: two years absent I beg for money – she sends

me to him, like housemate rids me for the night, says, “Snake
Pit, stay out until dawn,” and I go dutifully, as I sit in this room
prepared for what a bad young man I have been: démodé clock
on wall, rose in vase wilted, cigar box open/empty, quartz ashtray

filled with stubs. And I’m his captive, as heavy man the weekend
before: smoked a fat stogie, called filthy names, brought me to edges,
began again, prisoner for hours - electric skinned discourse,
obedience. I am his captive and I am not obedient to Daddy

in captivity. He disparages me: “I couldn’t care less about you…
your mother on tranquilizers…what a disappointment you are…
this is the last time…can you guarantee / I suppose not.” And
I assimilate, yearn for familiar captivity in dark lacquered rooms.

© John Vick

---

Your first name:	Your URL:
Use the box below to leave messages for John. Begin Message: For John Vick