Orange leaves on trees,
bright yellow chrysanthemums,
glow against grey day.
Copyright 2013
T. Allen Culpepper
Orange leaves on trees,
bright yellow chrysanthemums,
glow against grey day.
Copyright 2013
T. Allen Culpepper
If I had seen the sign,
“You must be ten feet tall
to ride this life,” I
would’ve waited for my
growth spurt, but I
didn’t, and the minder
let me board, so I’m trying
to hang on, feeling small;
I hope it doesn’t go upside…
Down…!
Copyright 2013
T. Allen Culpepper
A rowdy adolescent
in a paler shade of orange
stretched out on the sofa
lets me rub his feet and belly,
then digs up the potted plants,
races in circles around the room,
swings from the mini-blinds,
jumps down, runs between my legs.
collides with who knows what,
sends books and boxes crashing,
baseball-slides under a chair–
you’ve met the cat who took me in:
Spenser by name, mischief his trade.
Copyright 2013
T. Allen Culpepper
Color-blocked pansies:
despite the connotations,
last soldiers standing.
Copyright 2013
T. Allen Culpepper
Doing homework at the coffeehouse.
tall but stocky, dark blond hair,
in grey hoodie and navy tennis shorts,
bare legs, hairy-blond, no shoes;
well-built, sturdy legs, masculine feet.
Open textbook, pen and pad on table,
fiddling with his tablet underneath.
Looks a little tired, a little bored,
but getting on with it, doing the work.
Reminds me of the kid in Florida
who rode his bike twenty miles to school,
always barefoot, wrote to the president
to protest the college policy requiring shoes—
except that he was thin and slight,
delicate of voice, whereas when this one
speaks his voice is husky, a little hard
to understand because of vague enunciation.
And he slips into flip-flops to exit—
which is cheating, surely.
Copyright 2013
T. Allen Culpepper
He comes out of the house nearly naked,
wearing only his black draw-string shorts.
Not a body-builder, but he works out;
lean with muscles taut and six-pack abs;
has tattoos, but they’re not overdone.
Whether he’s handsome or not, I can’t say;
or rather I do, but it would be bad form,
and I don’t want to go sailing over handlebars.
But I can resist a glance back over my shoulder
and see him do a pull-up on a tree branch,
so it could be that worldly sophistication
is not the strongest suit that he’s been dealt.
But I’d have to play at least one round to know.
Copyright 2013
T. Allen Culpepper
He lives on Second Place,
never laughed at, really,
but never the winner.
Copyright 2013
T. Allen Culpepper
In autumn’s first chill,
windows open to night air–
in bed with two cats.
Copyright 2013
T. Allen Culpepper
1
Tall and lean in skinny jeans
over leather desert boots,
tightly fitting printed shirt,
a blue button-up with sleeves
rolled high, brown hair styled just so.
2
Multicolored striped
sweater, glasses, tight black cap
pushed back on buzzed blond
head, smooth face, skinny black jeans,
rich voice, but girlish giggle.
3
Angel in an unexpected venue,
blond perfection behind me for a moment,
but, like youth itself, in a flash
the apparition disappears from view.
4
Straw-haired kid in blazer,
like me, there on his own,
but he’s happy, singing.
5
Straight couple in band T-shirts;
both are short, about my height;
he’s not bad–light beard, knit cap,
small plugs in his ears, brown eyes.
6
Two South Asian boys:
one bubbly, knows all the words;
the other stoic.
Copyright 2013
T. Allen Culpepper