Direct Line

The neighbors really began to wonder
When he installed the old Bell Telephone booth,
Complete with coin-op, black dial telephone,
Having one out in the country was one thing,
But when he installed it
High in the top of the Ponderosa Pine,
They talked among themselves,
They would see the green glow of it at night,
The figure of a man inside,
Talking, talking until midnight or beyond,
When they asked him about it
He just called it Arté Moderné,
Inquiring: “Did they like it?”
To which they replied in the negative:
“Brings down property values,” one said,
“Town folk will think we’re crazy,” said another,
Later, when the economy went bad,
They came with their pitchforks and torches,
Pounding on his door until he came out
In his Big Smith overalls unbuttoned at the sides,
No shirt and a straw hat
With a bright orange bandanna,
He stood in the light of the torches
Listening to their cacophony of catcalls
Until the phone rang in the overhead booth,
It rang loudly, so loudly they dropped torch and pitchfork,
Covered their ears and fell to the ground,
“Just a second, folks, I’ve got to answer this call,” he said,
Walking to the base of the fifty foot tree,
Then climbing hand over hand,
Up the evenly spaced branches clear to the top
Where he entered the booth,
The horribly loud ringing stopped,
The octagonal green shaft of light
Illuminated phone booth and tree,
They looked on in amazement
As the booth slowly levitated
Changing shape as it moved upward in the light
From cubicle to octagon capsule,
He smiled down upon them,
Waved and was gone.

Judgement Day

On the Last Day
He realized
He had failed
His Lenten
Penitence,
He owed
The Lord
Thirty bags of Skittles,
Like the thirty Pieces of Silver
That haunted Judas
Was he also haunted,
So he took the thirty bags
To the Sanhedrin
To purchase land
For Potter’s field,
But they turned him down,
Can’t use Skittles, they said,
It’s against The Law.

Chick Day

Whenever chick day rolls around
He heads for the local Co-Op,
In his best Big Smith overalls,
His hair Brylcreemed to perfection,
Ostrich hide boots
Carry him into the store
Where he might run into the recent widow,
Or the unsuspecting new farm bride,
Who come to pick out baby chicks,
Heat lamps, and bags of chicken feed
That morph into dresses,
He offers them help as they bend over
The makeshift pen,
“There’s a cute one,” he says
Putting one hand on their back
Then backing off when they raise up
Red faced and mad,
Pulling down on the hem of their feedsack dress,
“Now Jeb, mind your manners,” the clerk says to him,
Remembering her dead husband,
How he went with her to the Co-Op
Every year on chick day.