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2:53 A.M. |
by Philip Venzke
Each and every night
this piece of time
disembarks my sleep.
Now, this isn't just any minute.
In fact, this moment has a job.
Indeed, it has made a career
of reminding me nightly
of what I would like to forget.
It begins its work quickly.
That second hand squanders
none of those sixty clicks
as it dances on the clock,
glad-hands the mirror,
schmooze's the moon,
and high-five's a shadow
prowling in a corner.
And when the work is done,
the time card is punched.
Without wasting a second,
it grabs the empty lunch pail
and, in the rain, heads to the bar.
Most of the two o'clock crew
are already there and cavorting.
All night long their loud reminiscing
ticks, ticks, ticks in my head.
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Catch and Release |
by Philip Venzke
for Jane
It was after you had taught
your cats to catch mice
while wearing isotoners,
that you pursued me
with a hidden hook
baited with an island.
Tempted, I took a bite.
You were shocked
when I spit out the hook.
So what were your plans
if you had caught me?
Next time,
use a barbless hook.
Philip Venzke grew up on a dairy farm near Colby, Wisconsin (where Colby Cheese was invented). A fervent zymurgist, his fermentations take many forms. His most recent poems have appeared in Verse Wisconsin, Echoes, The Wisconsin Poets Calendar, Sheepshead Review, Illumen, Thunderclap! Magazine, and Right Hand Pointing.
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