THE CAN'T-WORRY TALES (EPILOGUE)

by Richard Hacken

Whan that panne-demie with her virrus bittre

the lande with Mericanne courpses did littre,

and swathed thus visages with couvre-masque,

of which vertu for manye was too bigge an asque;

Whan Donaldus (eek!)  with his love for selfe

putte bleech and snaque's oil on ev'ry shelfe

for tendre eldres with prievyus conditiones

held oute to driy at cause of his foul perditiones;

and with electiones at halfe cours yronne,

twentie-milles of lyes he'd alreddie sponne, 

So priketh hem the truth from toe to tooth

which longeth folk to goon to voting booth,

or mail-personnes who neith in raine nor sleete do faile

to delivere ballotts by the U.S. Mail;

And specially from every stayte and districke

of Vespucci-Lande at the urn they pick

the hatefulle, hurtfulle jerke away to sende

that in an SDNY gaol he might justlie ende. 

Richard Hacken is a librarian-poet with degrees in German literature and past appointments at U.C. Davis, Oregon State, University of Kansas and BYU. He has translated Austrian short fiction and the poetry of a Tuvan poet from Mongolia who publishes in German. He claims to have found this Chaucer epilogue in the wash.

MARLON RETIRES

by Anita Cabrera

Photo source:  Photo credit: Lucas Jackson/Reuters via The New York Times.

In uniform-approved black shoes
feet now less nimble, snug inside
compression socks, he brings
checks and bills, report cards and
acceptance notices. Stuffs in flyers,
voter registration forms, packages
small enough to fit, before trudging
ahead heavied with our secrets (a

Card from prison, lien or loan). A
habit or skill not to sweat or to
complain through heatwave days or
winter rains? Varicose veins and
senile terrier nips endured with
tempered grace. Each pause at
box or slot, obedience to route and
oath. Gives us time to ask about
his family, catch him up on ours.
For years I called him

Merlin before learning Marlon is
his name, as in Brando. The
months his child lay quiet in a
coma, he kept a steady measured
pace, balanced the envelope of
grief and duty. Both our temples
greyer now, he’s ready to go
out of circulation, fly first-

Class, get whisked away, back to
where he can rest his legs, just
in time, before all of
our mail piles up
undelivered.

Anita Cabrera is a poet, essayist and fiction writer whose work has appeared in The Berkeley Poetry Review, Brain, Child Magazine, Colere, Acentos Review, The New Guard, and other journals. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Award, and adapted and performed by the Word for Word Theater Group. Ms. Cabrera lives and teaches in San Francisco, CA where she is active in dance and recovery communities.

ODE TO WHAT WE CAN COUNT ON

by Mark Danowsky

The U.S. Postal Service was out there minding its business until the bully-in-chief took aim at the public service, calling it a joke, demanding it increase prices and claiming that mail-in voting would be compromised. When he was done with all his orange unhinged ranting, Trump did what he’s done throughout his presidency, which is to make sure someone was in place to do his dirty work. Trump’s boy Louis DeJoy became the postmaster general in May. Besides mailing letters and buying the stamps of the Confederacy, DeJoy has absolutely no qualifications for this position, but he did have one quality that has always been impressive to Trump: DeJoy is a huge Republican donor, and more specifically, a Trump donor. Since taking over the U.S. Postal Service, DeJoy is either so inept that he’s fucking things up, or he is actively working to create mail delays and possibly a clusterfuck during election time. Either way, whether accidental or intentional, he’s doing a great job that only benefits the president. Stephen A. Crockett Jr., The Root, July 31, 2020. Photo illustration: Soohee Cho/The Intercept, Getty Images, Alamy.

The mail
Morning tea
Afternoon walk
Taco Tuesday
The mail

The mail
Fresh podcast episode
The album drop
The mail

The mail
A morning dose
The mail
An evening dose

The mail
A check-in message
Missed calls
The mail

The mail
The walks
Birdsong
Rainstorm
The mail

The mail
A brief exchange
A trip to the store
Taco Tuesday
The mail


Mark Danowsky is a Philadelphia poet, author of the poetry collection As Falls Trees (NightBallet Press), Managing Editor of the Schuylkill Valley Journal, and Editor of ONE ART poetry journal.

MOURNING GEORGE FLOYD

by Marilyn Peretti

A boxy white truck with the blue eagle
pulls up to the curb, the postal vehicle
I observe most days.

Today I’m absorbed in tv, at the same time
view the driver through my window—
her pale blue clerk’s shirt, a billed cap,
and the blue-gray summer shorts
showing her shiny brown legs
through the open door.

Fleetingly I wonder what mail she’ll
bring me. But back to the Houston
funeral of George Floyd, victim
of city police brutality.

The choir, distancing themselves
due to the pandemic, the speakers,
the pastors lowering their safety masks.
The organ, the hymns, the brothers.

Then Rev. Al Sharpton, “‘I can’t breathe’
he said, and was choked for 8 minutes,
46 seconds — Breath is how God gives
you life, it is sanctified, it is sacred.”

She’s still sitting in the truck
looking down intently at her device
it seems. I watch the congregants,
hear sad and glorious words, lifting
George up, praising his honesty,
his leadership, his faith.

After 15 minutes she climbs out
of the truck, opens the rear door,
lifts the mail tub out for our building,
interrupting her concentration—
she our civil servant, an essential worker,
experiencing this near-personal funeral
on the job.

More songs, more lifting up of George.
She returns to the truck, empty tub
over her head, protection from the
sudden June downpour.

In her seat again, she stares at the device,
mourning in the postal truck. After
some time, I see the red brake light
come on, and she pulls away.

Marilyn Peretti of Glen Ellyn, IL, does too much thinking. And probably feeling. She has been published many times before at TheNewVerse.News.