knowing our outcome
2 poems by Len Kuntz
Birthday Card for My Father
She said, “Do chores if you want a job,”
and sent me on with a mower, a broom,
a rag resembling my old t-shirt.
In her bedroom it smelled citrusy,
made my mouth water,
but there in the wire waste basket it sat,
no different than a bludgeoned bird,
shredded pieces, meaningless and unmailed.
Hand Me Down
Her expression is nostalgic,
like last week or last month or
threadbare Hand-Me-Downs.
She backs up before she kisses me,
coughing in her palm,
hawking up something thick.
Her breath smells of used things:
garage sales and Goodwill,
pawnshops.
I worm my tongue over hers–
And for an instant we are two dry slugs tugging at each other
until the dog paws and barks between us,
knowing our outcome better than
we do.