By: Richard LeDue

“Poem Sized Questions (In Lieu of Big Ones)”

Why are there poets
who are so sure they’ve seen god
or at least through him enough
to brag about oblivion
like it’s an award for a poetry contest?

Why are there poets
so obsessed with death,
they give words wings, as if angels
could be created from paper
and souls just another footnote?

Why are there poets
sitting in coffee shops on laptops,
praying to free refills,
communing with complimentary wifi,
just to be condemned by a blank screen?

“A Most Unscientific Poem”

Waxing poetic on the dirty floor
that we call the afterlife,
and contemplating reincarnation
like someone trying to decide
on a bottle of cleaning solution
at the dollar store,
only to conclude my love of music
must mean I was Beethoven
for Halloween in a past life.

Then there’s the footsteps
I hear daily, which are so dead
that I forget they’re my own,
but rising blood pressure
proves I don’t need a bed sheet,
even if my goosebumps take flight,
(probably of fancy and looking
for a V to join), whenever someone
walks on my grave,
which hasn’t been dug yet.

“Middle of the Week Faith”

The rain christens another Wednesday
unpaid thirty minute lunch break,
while the nameless puddles are cursed
for giving birth to wet socks
and doubts
that all the shoes in your closet,
the big screen TVs,
a drawer full of key chains
and the two cars in your driveway
aren’t worth the pieces of your soul
you sell everyday,
even the ones you don’t work.