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Poetry By
  Rose Mary Boehm

Published on: 11/22/2013
Same as last year please

Bring on the old routine. My tea
at eight-thirty, lunch by two.
No new lovers—or old ones.
Spare me the vicar's invitation.

I don't want surprises. Protect
me from the new crop
of serious young intellectuals.
Don't corner me in order to explain
the subscript of Kubrick's 2001.

Everyone's opinions are formed
by everyone's opinions and
I finally want to misbehave
by thinking out loud
for myself.

Published on: 11/20/2013

When the dog's front half disappeared
under a heap of soggy leaves, I kicked
away that mix of rotting vegetable matter
and saw it. Man, I smelled it. It made
curious humming noises and something like
the sound bubbles make when they burst.

Decomposition, they call it. When the dog
had calmed, we just stood there under the giant
ferns. From the nearest kapok hung a termite
nest like a tumorous growth as large as a backpack.

Flesh had again become part of the earth. No CSI
in Amazonia, no cell phone connection, no 911.
Man or beast, who cares.
Just matter to be reabsorbed.

Published on: 11/17/2013

Turning over and over. Didn't see
the black ice, wasn't taught
about tailspin.

He can't iron a shirt. The cats
will go hungry. Hope
I turned off the gas. Left
the front door unlocked. The dog
will eat the leftover turkey.
The goldfish froze in the pond.
If I live I don't have a nightie
for the hospital.

my children forgive me
for dying
on Christmas Day.

It's over.
I can get out.
Can walk.
Walk away.

Dean Martin's voice
follows me from the wreck.

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