Three Poems by Frank Ford

Two flee the Catty Arts

by FRANK FORD

 

for farming, real, dirt, not

Gentleman. Traverse mud-

 

dy fields for planting, bosky

dells for mushrooms. They

 

advance in this rough trade

when one, alas, passes.

 

Media dwells on former career and

mentions “long-time companion”–

 

no tough deal in the blue states. In

reds, a fact imagined like mosques.

 

 

Crazy-making

by FRANK FORD

 

Once relying on Health Store

nostrums, now on four pre-

scription meds. Latest,

 

after gastric-horror-night,

the TV-touted purple pill

 

delivering symptoms

intended to block.

 

Or, in Country: Gives

yuh what’all yuh got.

Crazy-making!

Need move to deepest

West Virginia woods,

 

grinding herbs together

with a grannywoman

 

chanting up to the–-Wow!–

stars.

 

 

Short History With Requisite Ironies

by FRANK FORD

 

Upon his last divorce

the marriage counselor

threw it in, moving

 

to a studio in Pennsauken. (cue

Thousand and One Nights slide.)

 

Thousand TV channels, too,

hardly soothed him, reruns

 

of My Mother the Car sufficing

for the raw jail sentence he

felt deserving of. A cleaning

 

lady once a month set

him free to go into Philly

 

and a ball game. He’d

return somewhat drunk

 

and toast his exes before

wrestling sleep. Also,

Truth and Beauty. Personnel

 

honcho of Wawa Stores HQ

in Wawa, PA finally tabbed his

background as priceless in

 

handing disputes arising mid

coffee makers and cashiers.

 

The first day a flash flood took

his car and it couldn’t be found.

 

Trooper Kip Stoltzfus told him

not to worry. Couldn’t search all

the streams while it still poured.

 

Fire truck carried him to an AAA

motel across from Granite Run Mall.

 

Action News sought an interview

but he shivered under blankets.

 

Frank Ford prefers football to politics lately. Afraid he may learn too much.

 

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