Ron Koertge
Silver Bullets
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.
The current poet laureate of South Pasadena, Ron Koertge has published all over the place.