john greiner | three poems

Where’s the Deuce?

42nd St. shuffle feet,
and corporations,
beyond the possible.
Breakdance shtick
still play in the sticks
set down for a week
in the city.


We were reduced in our
laughter to the tears
of grade school days
seeing the sadist brides
of our savior coming
at us with bony knuckles,
back hands and secrets
pure as that of the May Queen.

All the girls of grade school
days gone in the games
on the South Side; drinks
and poker machines, Iron
City wobbling dreams.  Brides
of busted boys in union
jobs gone.  Gone the great
God in a grieved nation.

Off we went,
hysterics of the mysteries
of molten steel
and Pittsburgh brought
to its knees and all
the nunneries nothing more
than bare bones of the brides
stripped and broken.

She on the Shore

Her, haughty stance,
always.  On the shore.
She, a fine daughter
of Sea Girt.  Here, away,
far enough to not matter.
Coney Island, long ride,
D train.  She, a queen
from the Jersey chic
set.  Boys buy bodega
roses. Dive in.
Swallow salt water.

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