Hospodar (5)

Yuri Hospodar

Snowman Golubtsi

It was a trembling, I’m sure,
and not some caffeine jitters
either; more a temblor roll
in a kitten’s wild eye,

adjectives clanking like

sugar cubes in a teacup,
in a tempest that honestly

meant something.

There are times my thumbs
do the better negotiations
and leave the vacuum in the dust
choking on the fumes
of your little red wagon.

If I named a cat “Chlorine”
would it grow up to float?
Or would its whiskers just have
that tart Speedo stink?

Would a grandmother’s recipe
still taste the same
if someone else cooks it
long after she’s dead?
Or would the homeland air
have a whiff of Sears?

If I ram a point home
will I get your goat?
Or would it be a sheep shot?

Lying awake at night
(or in the blurred eyes-full
of the early morn)
these questions come to me
and kick the Sandman’s ass
with their intransigent blizzard.

What will we make with them?
They’ve been so kind,
they’ve ruined my alarm clock,
their shrill punctuation
gets me ready for the day.

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