DAYS OF ABSENCE

by Royal Rhodes

Trump’s promise of mass deportation throws undocumented Texans into fear, uncertainty. —Texas Public Radio, December 19, 2024

Was I asleep and missed the sudden Rapture

that took the nameless with familiar faces?

Where did they go, with all the little ones?

The guy who cut the hair of homeless Vets,

the smiling pizza boy, and couriers?

Our well-trimmed gardens are now overgrown.

Produce at the market costs much more—

no strawberries for even ready money.

And who will take our dogs for daily walks?

These days of absence seem so rude at best.

Are we supposed to give Grandma a bath?

She knew the helper more than she knows us.

Are they on retreat deep in the desert

in prayer and fasting from all food and water?

In church they took with us the bread and wine,

but sat apart or stood beside the door.

Have angels raised them up to Paradise?

Was it the Rapture or some plotted rupture?

Royal Rhodes is a poet whose poems have appeared in numerous literary journals, including several times in The New Verse News.

A COMMUNITY OF TWO

by Earl J Wilcox

Early this morning just after the sun
begins its day in our neighborhood

two elderly men arrive in their
little white truck, its bed hauling

shovels, axes, a pick or two, wheel-
barrow, assorted rakes—and their

little black boom box. They are here
to whale away at a big patch of wild

weeds and grass I need defeated from
my front yard. I sit on my porch step,

not to oversee because they have known
for all their lives how to work against

weeds and other stubborn growth.
The pandemic is no match for these

two whose social distancing may not
suit the virus gurus. As they dig and

rake and haul away their talk animates,
fills the air—hardy laughs, grunts

accompany tugs against tough grass.
pauses to wipe a brow, massaging

a calloused hand, back stretching.
In their galaxy today, the antibody

is talk mixed with dollops of country
music, occasional arias of southern

gospel plus a local car salesman still
hawking the best deals in town.


Earl Wilcox is reopening his back yard to squirrels, robins, and cotton tail rabbits. Early worms show up at their own risk.

SoCal ILLEGALS

by Peg Quinn

 

Rain washed out the gardeners morning.
They’ve gathered just beyond my back door,
leaning on trucks, getting soaked, their
laughter muffled except for one high-
pitched trill, like a girl. I smile,
embarrassed.

They’re dressed in layers of faded clothes,
teeth framed in gold, defiant knuckles raw
and determined as their letters home.

When the sun returns they’ll protect their necks
with bandannas draped from baseball caps,
scrunch in rusted, dented trucks and
clank away to guaranteed uncertainty.

Peg Quinn is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, mural and theatrical set painter, award-winning quilter and art specialist at a private school in Santa Barbara, California.