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The Cardinal
Thousands of holidaymakers
Stranded in the clouds …
It’s a lot of money just for a prank—
But what’s money if they die laughing?
Thousands of British pound sterling
Raining down in fives, tens, twenties …
The wings of my long scarlet coat—
In the air like the sleeves of a cardinal.
Love in Hand
A chicken in each fountain.
Loose change for every pot pie.
His sausage fingers reach in
And are scalded … love is bland.
Coca-Cola gushing fountain.
Two box-cars in every garage.
I crushed hard between the buttons—
We all did … love in hand.
Metropolitan
I look away when
The female of the species
Applies her war paint
Or feeds her young.
When the men
Reach for the sky
With their phones
To catch a falling
Illumination.
Helpless, without memory,
Which they consider
Limitless, etc.
Stable Cottage
Tottering down your narrow hall,
Brushing all the pictures off the wall.
That one of sunrise … or sunset?
Abstract … representational?
You can’t just leave things to an artist.
Teetering at the top of the stairs,
On the point of collapsing into carpet
Or gentle, mindful concrete.
Nobody eats round a table anymore
And certainly not a brown one such as this.
James Dufficy lives in London and works as a copy editor for Developmental Medicine & Child Neurology, a monthly journal published by the Mac Keith Press. Recent poems have appeared in Whisk(e)y Tit Journal and The Gay & Lesbian Review.
Copyright © 2024 by James Dufficy, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of Copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author
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