Long Gone, But Not Yet
An olive tree perfuming the sea breeze
with jasmine—that’s where I want to sit
before warming my feet in the autumn surf
or brushing butter on scallops searing
on the Frigidaire grate passed down
three generations that rusted through
only last year. I dug the pit. No one but me
shoved the shattered hunks of concrete
into the damp grit. Burn what you like
in there, it burns long into the night
& there’s nothing like snarfing charred
morsels of what you & you alone
have caught or dug. Go where the air
itself feeds you, that’s my advice
& fondest hope, sad to say. To wedge
into the lowest crook of an ancient,
inexplicable tree & ponder the magpies
who must think the water desert
or else why would they mutter
in the dune grass? To not mow or clip
this tiny lot. To leave the loud
clothes behind & the bellowed
shopping lists & the battalions
of beery jesters & their thousands
of dogs. To not drive or ride the bus
or fear the war burning toward the border.
Oh, I’d climb down soon enough.
I’d wet my feet in the froth
& walk up to where the scrub pines
rustle & seep. I’d schlep plenty,
grumble, groan, wish myself elsewhere,
even there, but I swear, one snug room
is all I need. By the time the sand
melts into glass, I’ll be long gone.
Delicious
When Bill had
four days left,
a woman stood
at the foot of the bed.
They spoke & he told
me about it, but wouldn’t say
what they’d said & smiled
when he said it. I said I didn’t
understand & Bill said how much
he’d miss butter-pecan ice cream,
how nothing could bring him
more pleasure than a bowl
of butter-pecan ice cream.
***A native of the Pine Barrens region of southern New Jersey, John Repp has lived for many years in northwestern Pennsylvania. His most recent collection is Fat Jersey Blues, winner of the 2013 Akron Poetry Prize from the University of Akron Press.***
