You are too young to remember
paper that courses through the guts
of a register, slapping down the
ink of costs. I know how much tape
is left by how fat it sits in its socket.
Whose pockets carry these
transactions, among keys and lint?
As the register eats the tape,
somewhere in me wonders
when a streak of red
will stain down the middle,
a settling of accounts.
Elegiac Tragedy at Lake Billy Chinook
all we had to do
was be reverent
when we scattered her
(yes, I know it's illegal)
(it's always illegal)
we were new on this boat
the four foot swells,
one that tossed the bow up
just as we uncorked her
urn, and a breeze powder-coated
our faces. We looked like a twelve hour
shift in a coal mine.
Mother had ruined our toast,
as she was floating in the champagne.
We had to hose the deck
(couldn't return the boat like that);
She was a good lady
(and never laughed so hard).
About the author:
Mark Goodman lives in the foothills of the Cascades in the Pacific Northwest with his wife and two boys. His work has appeared in Ruah: Power of Poetry, Halcyon Literary Magazine, and Penwood Review.