poem index

poet

Sydney Lea

Printer-friendly version

by this poet

poem
When was the last lobotomy, I wonder? 
Too late for Carl at least, whom it’s all but hopeless 
to think of as a whipsaw of hateful passion 
that would if it could have torn up his mother and father, 
mild as they are; but that's how old villagers say 
Carl acted before he was cut. Their smiles are rueful. 
They
poem
A grotesquerie for so long we all ignored it:
The mammoth plastic Santa lighting up
On the Quik-Stop's roof, presiding over pumps
That gleamed and gushed in the tarmac lot below it.
 
Out back, with pumps of their own, the muttering diesels.
And we, for the most part ordinary folks,
Took all for granted: the