Roger Pfingston

URSULA PRIMROSE

Never met her.
Don't know her at all.
All I know is what
I heard in the doctor's
office, the nurse
looking out among us,
calling Ursula Primrose,
the expectant pause,
then again... Primrose,
is there an Ursula Primrose?

Alas, there wasn't.
It seemed Ursula
had fled, grown tired
of waiting perhaps,
or was called elsewhere
by who knows what
trick of the human
condition. Only her name
remained, hanging there,

and so I pulled it gently down
as the others turned away,
not seeming to mind
as I tucked it where
I wouldn't forget,
where later I might
bring it forth, mine alone
to savor, knowing too,
I would have to share.

NEITHER FRIEND NOR KIN

At 30,000 feet, two hours and counting,
thankful for the least diversion, I watched
the man in front of me nose up to the window,
entranced, perhaps, by the sheer thereness
of wingspan, the ephemeral cloudscapes,
as he picked at thick scabs of dandruff
embossing his balding head,
oblivious in the tight quarters of coach
to anyone noticing his compulsion.

I elbowed my wife and pointed
with my hand lowered,
but she elbowed back, disgusted,
returning to her book as I wondered
how long he would pick and search,
his fingers gliding lightly over pale skin,
indifferent to his fellow passenger,
surely neither friend nor kin.

Was he being met in Dallas?
Who would be there to shake his hand
or wrap him with hungry arms, kiss him,
hold his face and kiss him again? Or was it
more business than love or friendship?
Either way, they would never know him
as I do, remember him as I do, how he
finally settled back, unaware of having shared
his absence, as we began our descent.

Roger Pfingston is a retired teacher of English and photography. His work has appeared recently in DMQ Review, the Innisfree Poetry Journal, Poetry Midwest and two anthologies from Iowa Press: Say This of Horses and 75 Poems on Retirement. New work is scheduled to appear in Sin Fronteras and U.S. 1 Worksheets.

2007

ENCOUNTER

The kid leaned out
the open door of the Trans Am
as it slowed next to us,
packed with guys cruising
campus on a Sunday morning,
maybe still boozed up
after an all-nighter, my wife
and I walking to the arboretum.

He let fly, “Fuck you old people!”
as the car sped off, his arm
extended above the roof,
middle finger silhouetted.

Disbelief at first, then anger,
wanting to confront them...
with what? Words equally
demeaning? A weapon
of some kind, the quickly
imagined pistol, neatly tucked
under the shirt or strapped
to an ankle like the extra
piece cops carry?

When you first laughed
I thought you were crying.
“Fuck-you-old-peo-ple.
Come on, say it with me,”
you said, your finger stabbing
the air, stressing each syllable.
Soon we were among the trees,
both of us laughing, you saying
it would make a great T-shirt
to wear on our walks at the Y.

“What if they come back?”
I asked. “Let them,” you said,
slipping your arm around my waist.
A moment later you nuzzled
my beard and said, “If they do
come back, be ready,
because I’m going to kiss you
until they gag.” And then
you danced away, sliding
over the leafy walk to a tune
and a day increasingly ours.

APRIL’S BOY

Late breakfast,
rain tapping not
exactly soft shoe
over leaves I should’ve
raked six months ago,

and I’m still thinking about
last night’s moon,
a dome-headed poet
wearing a cape of clouds,

but this morning
Tuesday is a March matter
of little consequence,
a nothing moment
increasing in size
and warmth, sort of
like the furnace coming on,

and I am so at peace,
my Type A volume turned down,
I suddenly wax poetic and ask,
Whence this miraculous mending?

Gotcha! says the Bitch,

10 a.m. when my gullible angst
falls prey to this year’s
first tornado drill,

my acre of air beset
with a sisterhood of sirens upping
the amps: gotcha, gotcha, gotcha!

Born April’s boy,
is it any wonder I seek
the sanctuary of limestone walls,
the dark comfort under basement stairs?

untitled, oil on canvas, 2006 Theresa Pfarr

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