Four Hands, Two A.R.M.s

Frost’s Something also doesn’t love a lawn.
Weekends you’ll find me and my neighbors mowing,
edging or pulling weeds. We’re not withdrawn
New Hampshire farmers, though. We gab while sowing
seeds, shout above the whine of power tools
and gossip as we fertilize the grass.
We sweat suburban angst—the public schools,
our mortgages, the price of food and gas.

Our children play together in the shadows,
but you and I won’t mend a fence together.
We know it’s pointless. Given Colorado’s
economy, we’re transient as the weather.
You fix your fence; I choose to neglect mine
till it’s eclipsed by a foreclosure sign.

by James Wilk

James S. Wilk is a physician in Denver , Colorado , specializing in medical disorders complicating pregnancy. His poems have appeared in Measure, The Blue Unicorn, The Barefoot Muse, The Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine, The Lyric and others. In 2007 he received a Pushcart nomination. His chapbook, Shoulders, Fibs, and Lies is available through Pudding House Press.

Third Pig

Suppose the wolf had friends. I hear they roam
in packs of three or four to play their tricks,
to lay their traps, and find out if you're home
then hunt you out. I think about the sticks
and straw my frugal little brothers used.
A single wolf would puff it down--a pack?
Well, let's just say, you won't be so amused
by rhymes and chinny-chins when wolves attack
through chimneys, windows, digging under walls.
It makes no difference--chickens, humans, pigs...
Today, I just got lucky. There'll be more.
They'll find a way, and when the darkness falls,
our bricks and mortar might as well be twigs.

I boil my pot, and sit, and watch the door.

by Christopher Hanson

Christopher Hanson lives in Australia with his wife and four-year-old daughter. He is a keen musician and spends his spare time as a high school English teacher. His poems have appeared in 14 by 14, The Loch Raven Review, The Chimaera and The Barefoot Muse.

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