"Metronome Ghost" by Rob Plath
i had a dream i woke
in the middle of the night
& went to the kitchen window
& stared out
somebody had moved into
the empty house across the way
& had strung white lights around
the blue spruce on the lawn
even tho it was three months
after xmas
i pressed my face against the pane
gazing at the twinkling triangle
then it went out
that’s when i saw my mother’s face
in the opposite window
it floated above yellow lamplight
she was waving
her tiny hand steady & constant
like a metronome
how can you be there?
yr dead 5 years, i thought
& i almost turned away
but then i waved back
& finally the tiny hand lowered itself
& the window went dark
& then i awoke
strangely at ease
to scribble this poem down
"I Dream of the Horse
Nietzsche Spared in Turin" by Rob Plath
i always hated
bukowski‘s poems
about the track
the subject reminds me
too much of my father
pissing away his paycheck
at the betting window
or screaming at the tv
as his horse
came in over the line
dead last
or leaving us sweating
in the hot car in august
while he went into OTB
for hours
or bragging about
breaking somebody’s legs
over a gambling debt
or the whipping of something
that should’ve been shielded