Four Poems by

PHIL RICE

a last trip to
the white trashed sand palace;
the Coney Island of my mind;
the lost meditation in an emergency;
rollicking slowly
with brooding good looks—
blown dripping faces
of erect glee.

you spend happy
hours drawing
with melted Crayolas
while the tea pot
whistles
on the range
and you let it whistle

you spend Sunday
morning
whispering hymns
and letting
the wind
swish between
your toes

you decide to
wear my sandals
to go walking
along the dirt paths
of our woods

and then
when I hum
a tune
returning from
a night
spent out

you let
me whistle
long and loud
searching
for my sandals.

THE CEASELESS PAST

I set our love
on a particle board
frame, groomed it
like a hairless dog,
gave it a delicious name,
and let the weather
warp the joints
until the department
of health nuts
hauled it away.