Village Streets

by Mary Ann McDonnell

  Theirs is truly an endless love; she always races to embrace him, never questioning his absences, only welcoming wildly his return—

  He hurries to her, strewing ahead of him glistening jewels encased in shell and sand crystal—his offerings cover his love. She watches as he comes toward her—closer and closer, “He’s coming, he’s coming.” Boas of white froth frame her; she knows he is near.

  They consummate their love, then locked in close embrace they roll about, flaunting their loving— making their own music, hearing only the songs of the seabirds above them. Sun can shine, rain can fall; it makes no difference to them.

  Too soon the time comes for him to return whence he came, to renew himself again. He leaves, always roaring, “I’ll be back.”

  One day I stood upon the beach, and as he went away, I thought I heard her say, “We have to stop meeting this way”—

  This is the love story of the surf and the shore—

  Nothing more—

  (Shame on you.)

  The Rejected Juror

  Down, down ego!

  Come now fallen pride!

  The judge told you

  There is nothing personal involved.

  Ah, but yes, still way down

  Deep, deep inside—

  Why do you feel so dejected?

  So pushed aside?

  Is it because your peers are

  Going to a party and

  You are not invited?

  Ode To A Cucumber

  Little cucumber,

  I’ve got your number.

  So sweet and green

  Scrubbed so clean,

  I know you really like to drink a lot,

  I can see you heading for that crock—

  If only you hadn’t crawled along the ground

  You never would have found

  Yourself made into a pickle.

  For one so sweet, you’ll end up sour

  Soaking in brine for many an hour.

  You will lie in a jar so smelly

  Somewhere

  In some deli,

  Till you are sold across the counter.

  That will be your end—

  My little green friend—

  (Your) City Property (Park)

  Broken benches

  Men, and fences

  Littered pathways

  Cluttered minds, winos

  Nodding in the sun

  Pigeon painted statues

  No roller skating

  No bike riding

  No ball playing

  This is your park—

  Enjoy it—

  The Relative Account

  If you die and leave a will

  Mourning relatives will fight until

  It is broken, litigated unto death and still

  they’ll mourn

  Counting every nickel you had since you were born.

  So spend my darlings while you may—

  Enjoy bankbooks, C.D.’s or I.R.A.’s.

  Let them say

  You lived “December as though it were May.”

  You spent every last cent—

  Darn it.

  They Are Not Sick, They Are Dying, A Most Natural Thing To Do.

  Father Tom

  Almost always catches their last act,

  In fact

  He is usually master of ceremonies at the event.

  It’s just the old familiar change of

  Life to death

  To

  Life eternal.