Three Foley Poems

Passing the Plate

It’s not one of those deals

where the wallet is lost

in a snow bank. There isn’t a rally

cry from the port-o-potties plopped

in the hall because the accessibility

of fixtures was left wanting.

My cigarette reeks of cabbage

and you offered no tray in which to grind

fermented ash. I’m unabashed

in my pontificates and a world Catholic

pretend. My forehead’s vacant

but my trench coat’s splattered

with soot.

See the priest standing in the corner

at the dance?

What would he say if you asked him to join

in a foxy trot while the boys

all turn to face the wall

at the sound of his creepy shoes?

Dolomieu

Although dolomite is named after

Déodat de Dolomieu, gold is not

after you, Thaddeus Goldstein,

though I recollect a Thaddeus

among the Twelve of Christ, his

appearance a mere cameo, like

the drops of rain upon your parched

garden, where the Zinnias would have

been lovely, no?

Bentham

The astigmatism was nary an

excuse, losing all to the croupier

who failed to claim the earnings

on his taxes, the roulette wheel

a cheating flat-earther, wouldn’t

last an hour on a cart pulled by a

mule, and then the utilitarian,

Jeremy Bentham, who mightn’t a rat’s

ass give for the lone beggar as long

as the masses thrived, and your match-

stick’s unkindled because all of living’s

a blur, light that gives no light.

All poems ©2021, 2024 Andreas Gripp

writing as D.G. Foley

Andreas Gripp