The Day the Old Horse Died

We're Just Here to Tidy Your Assets Up a Bit

We're Just Here to Help Tidy Your Assets Up a Bit

        by Ronald J. Hoffman

black sweeps the corner
and leaves a fine residue
feeds the morning mist
shaker shaking fits
the squirrels piled the leaves
in the trees while the crows
watched and had seen
the hawks lying low
waiting in the breeze.

Just around the corner
bank of dread makes
promises for the tastes
you shake up in your head
and while you may
occasionally pay late
their eye is upon you
counting all the ways
you could be dead

And now Winter is upon you
the cold ever near
sawdust in your bones
as you bank your fear
because it doesn't matter
what agency or company it is
someone will always
get what you leave.

Copyright 2017 Ronald J. Hoffman, Roaming Snyder Publishig

Dirty Underwear

Dirty Underwear

    by Ronald J. Hoffman

against you against the wall up and down the street

scum caked windows and iron grates

people with tools to break their fate

but all you see is dirty underwear

piss and perfume and human brine

downward faces get to work on time

you're forty five and you punch a clock

and your boss is some clean cut jock

but he wears dirty underwear

we all wear dirty underwear

cheap food cheap beer that's all we need

cheap wages that pay the landlord's deed

has her expenses to feed her greed

and she wears dirty underwear

she needs your dirty underwear

time to get up another day

kick the tv dinner boxes away

singing to work all the way

all we need is dirty underwear

drink some black coffee and tug on

your dirty underwear

Copyright 2017 Ronald J. Hoffman

When I see These Boots

When I See These Boots

   by Ronald J. Hoffman

All I think of when I see these boots

is a hand full of dimes

squeaking at me through the leather

and broken soles that seem to grind

my feet to the ground

All I see is a row of wooden picture frames

and I count them, subtract them, divide them

into the hours that mark my sanity. Because I

am aware of time and can add, subtract, multiply

and divide it I breathe through the cracks

in my soles where nobody can see me. I can

breathe into my soul with the sound of socks

slushing in my ears and the heartbeat of boots

on polished concrete, rhythmically stepping

from one duty to the next.

And with the sound of the whistle preceding,

I lop off decades of time between integers.

2017 Ronald J. Hoffman, Roaming Snyder Publishing.

Harold's Bedroom

Harold's Bedroom

Goddammit I blame it on memories
for making me grow weak
I've taken what's safe and sound
I carry it with shaky knees

Wife's having the day old mold
I get tired of making eyes
Life's losing its graces
No more time for sacrifice

I used to be wary of wearing colors
for seeing eyes
too much left to cover
as I grew in size

But now I wear crimson red and
pthallo blue, I just don't change the bed
as often as I used to.

No forward sort of happiness
just a weak remembrance
of passing days with the world
gone by

I once knew who we came to kiss
But now whenever I see
All that's in front of the mirror
is weak
I pound my ashes
hate deep in dust
grab in fear of
all that withers
that is so plain to see