Just In Case In case I don’t survive the Trump years, tell Barak and Michelle, and the POTUS dogs Bo and Sunny that I loved them, very much. In case I lose consciousness on Inauguration day, don’t revive me until 2020. Then, don’t share anything that happened. Should Hillary, Mario or Ted run again, minimally hydrate me, respect my wish to be a longterm amnesiac, leave me attached to tubes, strapped down on a gurney, comatose for four more years. In case I cannot stomach the bile bubbling through my veins, in case my TrumpCare card cannot cure my case of outrage, you have my permission to fly me to any country with a thoughtful president. In case I cannot stomach the gall, my dear friends: do not let me buy firearms with no background check, over the internet, from my crazy neighbor. Should you find me crazed, clinging in my closet to tarnished truths, remove my television and radio, let me wander my neighborhood, with a rechargeable-battery-run flashlight, telling my truths, uttering words like “unprecedented” just as a real newscaster does. And tell me when the four years is up.
Remember Francisco Coronado Remember when your parents brought home a new baby a mewing, mauling mystery, so fussed over as he turned into your forever brother who leveled your Lego village while you were at school. And, remember when Coronado rode into Alburqueruque in 1540, shiny and proud riding a never-before-seen horse, he let you ride. He wore a rooster helmet topped with an iron mowhawk. He showed up at dusk in October. Under the armour, he was skinny. Hoping to dine with you, he eyed your turkey feather blanket and your daughter with interest. Suddenly you were hosting Coronado and 1000 of his men for dinner. The first snow was on the ground. Soon your people moved from your own pueblo to please Coronado. You were forced to share your corn with him, almost starved that winter so he wouldn’t die. In April when he left for Kansas you said helpfully hopefully, ‘Yep, there’s gold East of here.” And then, sure enough, Coronado returned in October, and complained about no gold and no turkey feather blankets. And he was hungry again. And suddenly you knew you were going to be stuck with that little brother, Coronado, forever. Remember Francisco Coronado was first published online in the Duke City Fix Sunday Poem Series July 3d, 2016
A Dry Dog Story Poet Billy Collins writes: nobody likes a wet dog. Today, I yell back at Billy: “I love a wet dog!” I love a wet dog, devoted to hygiene, dog paddling In a clean stream or taking a warm shower weekly. My dog refuses to approach any body of water. He’s all chicken at the hiss of hose, not a dog you want representing at the fire station. This dusty dog dropped out of the grooming program at Petsmart after I dropped him off for a spring cleaning. His first, also last, personal groomer called my phone to rat him out. She insisted I return immediately to pick up a dry, dirty dog, turned surly at the shampoo station, now glowering at cleaner dogs. Years later, his coat is matted ombre, black merging to brown where he lies on the ground, with a few detached sticks the backyard cottonwood offered him. Like Pigpen in Peanuts, he is clothed in his own dust storm, dust that he, and he alone, treasures. Sometimes, new just knocks off old dust; he likes to dump a load in the kitchen, when I’m cooking. Refusing to reveal his reasons for staying dry, he is a dog of mystery: Perhaps, his parents hail from small towns in New Mexico, Carrizozo or Claunch. His mom took him for memorable walks in xeriscaped dylands. His pa overly cautioned him about not swimming in arroyos, and overdid the lecture about conserving water.
Megan is a retired teacher who taught students ranging from second grade to twenty-to-thirty-year-old students recommitting to school so they could pass their GED. She also spent a lot of time trying to get her own four children through school. She has lived for twenty years in Cedar Crest, then for the past ten years in Albuquerque. She is happily transplanted Connecticutian. She loves a beautiful garden, and cooking a good meal at night, and, now that she has retired, she loves to read late! As a volunteer, she is a docent at Albuquerque fabulous Botanic Garden, at the Albuquerque Museum and at the National Hispanic Cultural Center.
She hopes four years is going to go by quickly, and is planning to raise her political voice.