John M. FitzGerald Poems

As for the talking,
if I wanted something said,
it would be here.
...

Joe Smith takes a pickle jar and latex gloves
From under the kitchen sink, and sits at the workbench
In the tool shed outside his father’s house.
He dons the gloves, empties poison from six livestock collars
...

I would be one of the wanderers,
with heaven watching.
Observe, you reflections, I glance away.
...

Joe Smith works at the Spring Water Plant, in Tacoma.
All his life, everyone called him Joe Smith.
Never just Joe.
It makes him feel generic.
...

I hardly sleep because of dreams.
They don’t become me, and could be obsessions,
Depending on whether it’s day or night.
Visions seem incompatible as birds and windows.
...

Now, I stare into emptiness,
alone enough for poetry,
alone enough for even me,
alone requiring mention of passing.
...

I like theme songs that get to the point.
Gilligan’s Island told a tale;
I don’t want to hear a tale.
You’re stranded, that’s that.
...

He is the man you saw sitting at the bus stop,
His elbows on his knees,
Arms like pillars propping up his noggin,
Hands in a V, with his chin in the angle,
...