Ron Koertge

I like this little town. Some good  restaurants, 
now farm to table.  Lots of friends from grade school.
No crime and well-behaved  children.

Sure there are werewolves.  But we know who
they are:   Gus the butcher.  Reverend Wilson.
And my father-in-law.

All month he takes  Alevatol,  Trulicity,   Zestril,  
Metformin.  He cries during chair yoga , throws his
walker,  curses the TV.

My wife still beautiful in the moonlight watches
from the balcony until there he is again, as powerful
and frightening as he used to be.

---

The Afterlife

My mother said to write
every day she was still
on earth.

So, Mom, there’s an earnest
girl  here who  asks everyone,
“Have you prayed today?”

If her pants weren’t
such an affront, she’d fit

in our small church
by the llama farm

where forty-nine people
who watched me grow up,

and kissed me and  called
me beloved

are waiting for
the horsemen. 

Oh, I didn’t think I would
write that. This may be
a lament after all.

I watch the hostess tie back
the flimsy curtains
so a breeze can enter.

Across the street, a neon sign
advertising deodorant
blinks all night.