Age

Age

I'm old enough

to have failed more times

than I succeeded

yet

I believe I'm a success

It's the little lie I tell myself

to keep me going

I made it to old age

despite narrow escapes

in car accidents

a few infections and surgeries

thoughts of suicide

the triple icebergs

of stupidity ego and asininity

using the same washed pots

dishes glasses stainless ware

everyday

The occasional runny egg

drips into my beard

or onto my shirt

A needed vacuum

of every room

is delayed just as

a change of sheets

I made it to my mess

in which I think I live

with no one but gODD

to keep me company

He she or they listen

I made it to the age

where I have a separate

briefcase for my medicine

and a small box

filled with supplies

for testing my

well you know

that stuff that runs

through my heart

I learned

that mentioning it

is a turn-off for readers

Some people wonder

if I have a heart

I'm old enough

to have a crowd behind me

that wonders that very thing

but they don't come to visit

or phone me to yell

or write letters with threats

I'm old enough to wish

I had one person

a loving person really

to look cross at me

over breakfast

because I didn't kiss

them first thing

or help with laundry

It's all just me and my years

full of memory and regret

There are no comforts

I'm old enough to have

odd habits and old clothing

knees bad enough to walk

inside a cage

that little portable prison

with bars between me

and anybody who could

love me enough

to sleep next to

a gray old man

with a beard full

of crumbs and egg

Living in a mobile home

ain't like living in sin

I've made it

I'm a success

in my loneliness

just happy to see

a spider has woven

a new web

Barry G. Wick

First Thoughts

First Thoughts

The ice of mornings

separate a prison of dreams

from a word

planted in my mind

The fire of my life has been

a series of mistakes

in blackened rows

leaving me a field of ash

awake to cultivate more

Barry G. Wick

Omnivore

Omnivore

Ich habe angst

for an Angus

who provided

the rib-eye steak

I cooked

along with baked potatoes

petits pois

(that's little peas

in that Frenchy lingo)

with everything swimming

in butter

which means I likely

violated some Old Testament law

Ah, but I'm not Jewish

in fact, I'm as religious

as a post...post something

post this or post that

Vegans and vegetarians

will hate me

Cattle will fart at me

and make global warming

worse for my fellow humans

Peas scream when I pass their field

“Shove my pod up your ass” they say

Potatoes are just plain stupid

which makes their caring impossible

still

I thought I heard a faint scream

when I mashed them with my fork

and salted

everything on my plate

With blood pressure rising

by the minute

I chew slowly and deliberately

since this is the first steak

I've eaten in Iowa

in five years

I'm sorry Iowa Beef Producers

I'm really poor

and some Senator or Representative

in Washington

will scream that I used

my S.N.A.P. Benefits

for expensive things

Nope

A surprise check

from a Rural Electric Association

ownership retirement

came

bringing tidings

of great joy

Angus beef

and the depth

of understanding

of my habits as an omnivore

Praise beef from whom all

blessings and juices

topped with butter ad nauseum

flow

on the plate

down my chin

on my shirt

whereupon my shirt

even tasted beefy

enough to make me think

I could eat the shirt off my back

which I won't wash

so that I could drool

first thing in the morning

Praise be to Drool

in whose image

we are all created

Barry G. Wick

A Visit with My Father

A Visit with My Father

The legs are slower
covered in support socks
that turn his white legs beige.
His hands are a varied mass
of liver spots and wrinkled skin.
On this face a bump or two
looks to be new from the last time
we talked four years ago.
His obvious pride for the brother
who stepped into his professional shoes
no longer strips me of myself.

Father, the song still plays
even though you're tone def,
never could sing all that well,
we'll manage not to follow you.
There's nothing we can do
from day to day to stop the fate
we felt at the grave of your parents.
You said you didn't like graveyards
We didn't linger long to say goodbye
it was our private moment
for me to say I'll watch over them.

Did we talk of my children?
Not one word.  There's no reason to open
that kettle long since boiled away
And did we talk of my mother
in whom part of you is still in love
and long since departed from the scene
enough to say she was fine,
though age begins to tell on her
and every pill doesn't do her well.
Here I am the walking love
you had one early spring evening
in a Dakota blizzard run wild in '51
So did you not expect a howl from me?
I'm full of them and more to come.


Barry G. Wick  (written in July of 1995