'The Far Side', copyright Bob Nunn, http://bob.nunn.art.googlepages.com/

Sheltered from Purpose

Ry Kincaid

Home
       is a tired poem, a three-by-five tattered in the worn Betty Crocker,
       a chokehold from the coasts, a clean four-by-four in the two-door garage.

Home
       is a blue canoe, the bound rakes in the shed, a femur broken from the
       tree fall, or pretending to fish off the stone wall of Billy’s backyard.

What’s in a name? asks Home. (good point)
Label her lady and you’ll be accused of giving
her meaning when she is just mortar not mortal.
Not living.

She’s a house.

Home
       is grandmother’s Bible or mystery novel, pages that aged like her cookbook
       but felt fewer fingers from mother and mother and daughter on tile and counter.

Home
       is a whitewater raft not close to the river but on the front porch where neighbors
       can see you and Billy imagining oaring the waves to the coast, east/west of now.

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Sunday Morning

Ry Kincaid

Here. We are still. Are still here. Morning breaks here. We are teasing. Are testing line breaks here. Bodies heaving. Bodies breathing. That was here. Here is bebop. Music moods us. You are not molded yet. Now feel. Feel now. Nervous tinge from tiny nerves. Do I mean you or me. I am old and molded. Night walk. Hands are held let go and held. The moon is palmed by finger branches. Sidewalk cracks below us here. Lonely breaks around us. Presenting you to morning now. But you sleep. I am watching you here. Country girl. Riding girl. Canter trot and gallop girl. Fair hair presented to morning. Are we weak. Are we weaned. We are. Sultry and lush. I am not old. Simple. Simply here. Wanted and wanting. Grand is the goal amen. Fifty-first and Grand. The wine flows here. Drinking poem. Intoxicating words words words. Plain(s) setting. Highs and lows. Are rendered here. The paint is splattered on the wall. Clearly.

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Ode to the Raytown Homecoming Queen, 1989

Ry Kincaid

History recorded this lifetime event—you wrote the dance date in your civics
       textbook. Alas, no Jefferson lesson will school you on dresses, corsages,
       or how to say yes.

I-70 shields your castle of commerce. Your ladies-in-waiting choose dresses to sell
       you. You model, they scorn, with eyes ever subtle, all the time chewing their
       gum in approval.

Sexy is sequins. Waves of paper mirrors smooth over this body that Monday-through-
       Friday seeks solace in oversized sweatshirts. On those days, thank God,
       Jake Traylor doesn’t notice.

Feathered and frizzy, mock Stevie Nicks princess, three purple bottles hath molded thy
       crown. Long gown and lips, color the same—they saw you so clearly mouth
       Who’s that with Jake?

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Loose Park

Ry Kincaid

autumn—
             afternoon—
                               remember

picnic with the actress? White wine
lost its chill and the cheese was too hard.
She took your hand in her siren role. You
walked to the Japanese bridge and winced

at the duck honking madly, “You are guilty!”
You walked on as the star mallard of the pond
shrilled this advice: “Watch your step!” (which
(he may have meant quite literally) Remember

rays lighting leaves and other visuals oft
poemed? (Did you really say this to her
in the park?) The outdoor theatre needed
no direction from you or your flowery words.

Pre-blooms or bloomless,
                                    (You’re no botanist, either,)
the rose garden green is a backstage hand,
preparing for the diva should she ever return.

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