LOST IN THE GLOAMING
My car floods with orange light from behind me.
I glance in the rear-view mirror, see a sun
in the shape of a jar lid, persimmon orange,
seconds before it melts below the horizon.
I want to watch it disappear as it tints clouds
and burns the sky with twilight, but I don't dare
look away from the road again while I'm driving.
It only takes a second to die.
What I think I'll do when I turn, homebound,
onto my dead-end road, is drive to the western
end of the road and snap a picture of the fiery
death of a glorious moment.
By the time I turn onto my road,
the sun has buried itself out of sight, and
all that is left is a contrail scratch of white
and sky bruised with a residual, reddish hue.
I sit there staring, think of a title that I remember
from a book I saw in the high school library,
Too Late the Phalarope, operative words being
"too late."
I back the car to my driveway, pull into the garage.
Why do I think that walking to the end
of the road will bring back the sun? Nothing will,
until tomorrow. I do, however, return, linger
behind a piece of rusted, woven-wire fence.
every trace of the sun, gone as quick as
a busted soap bubble. What is left is nostalgia,
a wistful memory, a longing like the feeling
that comes when I look at a photograph of someone
who has passed and want the deceased back again.
LAUNDROMAT CONFESSIONS
This is my first time in a laundromat.
I've come with a friend. While he's
doing his laundry, I'm cataloging
impressions.
20 washing machines stand ready
to receive the public's dirty laundry,
and I don't mean gossip or a libelous
exchange of information.
To stretch, I amble down the row of
13 dryers, see clothes tumble like
cast-off tumbleweeds, feel dizzy,
slightly upside down, by the time
I reach the end.
There's one attendant, a black woman
who constantly looks around as if
to figure out why she was hired.
There is no air conditioning, and
it's so hot I think clothes would dry
if left on the table at the entrance.
Speaking of the table, it wobbles
as much as a shopping cart with a
bad wheel. Seats attached to the table
are just as unstable, and with a wrong
move, would throw me to the beige
and green, tile floor.
My friend is impatient, wants a two-hour
endeavor shrunk to 15 minutes, moseys f
rom around the corner, perches at the table.
He looks glum, in need of something
to interest and excite him. I suggest we go
to the grocery next door, purchase a deck
of cards, plunk our clothes into the washer,
and while they're toppling, indulge in a game
of strip poker, both of us losers from the outset.
In the car, I ask, "Now, that wasn't so bad,
was it, or would you rather have a tooth pulled?"
R. Nikolas Macioci earned a PhD from The Ohio State University, taught for Columbus City Schools for thirty years. OCTELA, the Ohio Council of Teachers of English, named Nik Macioci the best secondary English teacher in the state of Ohio. Nik is the author of twenty-three books. He was twice nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, nominated five times for a Pushcart Prize, and twice for a Best of the Net award.
Love the tone and details of these poems. ❤️