Two Poems

Strange, How Certain Sounds, Which
When Recalled, Bring Joy or Grief

Grandfather sipping his coffee,
Poured into a broad-rimmed saucer
From his cup, which he took with
Farm fresh Guernsey cream, a lump
Of sugar held between his teeth.

—–

In the cold, pre-dawn rain,
Great black bags of garbage slump at the curb.
Weighted by their bloated bellies, they bear
The open wounds made by late-night prowlers,
Among them feral cats who lacerate their sides
Having smelled something fishy hidden beneath
The layers of dinner’s detritus.
In the early morning gulls, too, have come –
In pecking order – to probe each soggy sack’s
Potentialities. Only the geese do not come.

Flying far overhead, they honk their derision,
Making obscene gestures with their wings.