A-Minor

by Dennis Mahagin

Another hour
to kill. I’m about
to work on my will
and testament, then
we will order us
a pizza.

I had an idea about
a fool’s errand, right up there
with crock pots of soup stock
left to smolder on a stove top;
then I forgot. This house
is not

in my name, never
was but I got some
penny stocks, a dozen electric
toy trains by Tomix, Lionel
and Bachman packed up
a neck-high stack
of boxes under the stairs,
you can go there, if you
want it, just swear to

whatever, read these lines
aloud, as if edifying the ears
of unseen heirs gathered on
a green in dew, then leave it
alone me and you will

pitch in on the pizza.
You hear that bell, it scares
holy hell out of… whatever a
bit like where these
moments go: Reverie, Jehovah,
the killing floor. For me it’s more
akin to casting back, I remember
this hapless fashion model I saw
once in Seattle fall off

her catwalk; nasty
scrape, some bruise and
cuts, but she got up, achingly
slow, her back turned to
us all; she put two shaky
thumbs up

in the air while walking
away whatever I saw a snatch
of glitter spots, strapless gown,
bare shoulder blades show
the way

down to wings.
And what do you say about
a two liter of Mountain Dew,
too? See here, it could come
any moment now that’s what

I’m telling you, take it
off in a red Vespa scooter
you’ll find under the carport,
burnt O rings, dirty chrome
and throttle blown, a torn
puckering string…

a heart wants
to squeeze every bleeding
thing, it can; and will such is
the temerity of being
a man. I give, I give
whatever

I can; you read them
these lines, about a will
to live, make it stick so
they will understand.

The hour’s gone, but not
yet at hand, listen Nacho
Supreme black olive three

cheese, these
things rarely if
ever go off

as planned.