Bob Hicok Poems

Who cleaned up the Last Supper?
These would be my people.
Maybe hung over, wanting
desperately a better job,
...

My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers
of my palms tell me so.
Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish
at the same time. I think
...

My father's head has become a mystery to him.
We finally have something in common.
When he moves his head his eyes
get big as roses filled
...

is a system of posture for wood.
A way of not falling down
for twigs that happens
to benefit birds. I don't know.
...

I called a man today. After he said
hello and I said hello came a pause
during which it would have been
confusing to say hello again so I said
...

A bee in the field. The house on the mountain
reveals itself to have been there through summer.
It's not a bee but a horse eating frosted grass
in the yawn light. Secrets, the anguish of smoke
...

It’s hard being in love
with fireflies. I have to do
all the pots and pans.
When asked to parties
...

The dog licks my hand as I worry
about the left nipple
of the woman in the bathroom.
She is drying her hair, the woman
...

A few hours after Des Moines
the toilet overflowed.
This wasn't the adventure it sounds.
I sat with a man whose tattoos
...

At forty-eight, to be given water,
which is most of the world, given life
in water, which is most of me, given ease,
which is most of what I lack, here, where walls
...