Five Poems
by William Teets
Backstreet Cold
Past the Coliseum Bar,
we listen loud for lions
You drop your schoolbooks into the trashcan
on 59th, step through soapy-slush puddles
Saint Barnabas sells second-chances for nickels,
leaves me dreaming of constellations
hibernating in winter
Before I speak of the Great Sadness,
eye-shadow drips onto your NYU hoodie,
and all the queens look so old
The corner boys slip into view,
so cool, so cold
If wishes were crowns,
they’d all be kings
After the junkies rap on frosted glass,
buying tomorrow for today,
we hope West Fourth neon will warm
us against the cold
Get on the train
Get on the train
Don’t ask me why I came back for
Tijuana Revolution
Across a gravel bridge,
lost eyes of a beggar woman
reflect Asteria’s search for shelter
Three infants in dust around her
compel me to call them out by unknown names—
I hope they answer,
one by one
before the beast saddles back to slumber,
prepares for resurrection,
fulfills the obvious prophecy
when all will be scattered
like scripture lost in a lullaby,
horror tales told beneath a volcano
by madmen drunks in blue mezcal haze
We might have to get a gun,
maybe Gideon’s Bible from the drawer
Yeah, we need to get a gun,
and the children shall lead us
American Dream
Mary Jane worked at Coffeehouse Bridge. People accused her of never telling a lie, said she was righteous and proper and sweeter than summer jam. But I knew she sold dime bags along with espressos and croissants. Hustled me black beauties on a regular, which she claimed were nothing more than diet pills. My zingy hair and fast-beating heart disagreed. Legend says she never missed a day of class at Stone Ridge High, but I remember smoking Winstons with her at The Chain, every third period, senior year. When I asked her why people thought she was such an angel, she answered, no one really wants the truth, life’s easier that way. I fell in love right then and there. Wanted to marry Mary Jane in front of the whole town at St. Christopher’s Church, but she ended up wedding Bobby Ramos instead, and they moved to Albuquerque not long after. I think about her often—wearing that blue and yellow pelican summer dress, two French braids in her hair—while I drink Wild Irish Rose in the back alley of Coffeehouse Bridge, breaking down cardboard boxes, loading bagels into delivery vans, hoping I don’t wreck myself too bad. I sometimes think I might blow this town and catch a Grey Hound to New Mexico. Look up Mary Jane and Bobby. Word on the street is they’re killing it down there, but I also heard they’re not even together no more. But then Mr. Carlini screams from the loading dock to stop daydreaming and that old saying about it’s never too late to start over again pops into my head. That joint’s about as truthful as Mary Jane being an angel, Mary Jane never telling a lie.
Tithonus Redux
Did we jump the gun on the eve of our last new year together, run roughshod and reckless amongst mad hatters and pretentious ballyhoo? I swear you acted like a schoolgirl on leave, and just like Alison on the juke box too many times, you took off your party dress. I played my drugstore cowboy role to perfection, yet six months later you married him, surrounded by tall blue-green spruce. A drunk, coke-fueled, poet-cliché, I loitered too long on Suicide Bridge. During the fall, I counted so many birds flying south for the winter. Wished for one swan—just one—to fall from the heavens and die dead after an Ophelia summer. A wise man told me once, whom the gods would destroy they first make promising. He never told me the end. So, I wait. Dream about driving my Galaxy 500 into the sun, burn off the faded paint and stained seat covers—solar baptized anew. Surely, swans will die then, unless that, too, is a half-story without an ending. Just words to make us feel. More thoughts to make us pretend.
Hard Fall
After the hard fall, the rivers froze
early. The paint-chipped shutters still hang
sideways, the cracked facade
like your mother’s face after her second husband
died. You refused to help her work the farm,
but bought everything dirt cheap
from the bank after she died.
Stay in the city, far away,
ride the uptown bus nightly,
twice on half-price Fridays.
Don’t even try to fool anyone.
I sometimes sit on the worn-out porch steps,
wait for you, your car lights,
to roll down the drive,
return home.
Even if just to say hello,
remember once we used to love.
Christmas Eve, I light a candle
for you in the parlor window.
Christmas Day, the flame’s
glow long gone.
Gutted out, melted wax
leaves a Rorschach roadmap on the sill
that I can’t read in the hushed light.
After the hard fall, the rivers froze
early.
BIO: William Teets, born in Peekskill, New York, has recently relocated to Southeast Michigan. He misses New York pizza, corner stores, and the Hudson River. Mr. Teets’ poetry and prose have been published, or is forthcoming, in numerous literary journals and anthologies, including Blood+Honey, San Pedro River Review, Ariel Chart, Ink in Thirds, Drunk Monkeys, Big Windows Review, and Stone Poetry Journal. He is the author of two poetry books, After the Fall (2023) and Babylon Redux (2025), both published by Cajun Mutt Press. Teets can be found on social media at william.teets.73 and @williamteets.bsky.social.