Two Poems
by Travis Stephens
SINGING THE LOW-DOWN BROWN BOTTLE DRUG TEST BLUES
This office
this waiting room
with four barrel chairs
three end tables
five potted plants
and a TV, switched off.
The receptionist,
casually disinterested,
with her shiny gold
Lady of Guadalupe medal
could be working
a law office
regional sales office
tax preparer or
tech support firm.
No dice.
No sales
no lawyers
no luck.
Just me waiting
for a drug test,
probably administered
not by a nurse,
no doctor,
a lab technician.
Tuesday &
one full bladder
waiting.
SABBATH IN A SECOND-HAND CHURCH, APPROACHING EASTER OR PURIM OR OPENING DAY PLUS A PREDICTED BLOOD MOON
The choir, dressed like angels,
walk the walls of the nave
passing window sills of so much
stained glass, poorly lit & snug to
the wall, they look like
they have been lynched, I said
shut your mouth
my mother hissed
my god, such disrespect
is it no wonder
real angels don’t come.
She’s right, of course,
except on certain cold nights
when we’ve been fasting since
blowing all our dough at Christmas
(like the baby Jesus wanted a pair
of fleece-lined boots or a crate
of refrigerated pears) angels tap
on frosted windows like twigs &
sigh at our pathetic prayers.
Some angels subsist purely
on the glances of virgins plus a
few croutons drizzled with honey
plus a glance from God
is enough for an army plus the their
horses, aides and not inconsiderable
number of hangers on—laundry women,
whores & gamblers.
All so hungry.
All so hungry
to see angels in single file
from sacristy to cemetery without
a backward glance.
Don’t mind us, we say, unasked,
we came for the music.
BIO: Travis Stephens is a tugboat captain who lives and works with his family in California. His book of poetry skeeter bit & still drunk was published by Finishing Line Press.