Going Postal

by Robert E. Jordan © 2001

2:30 AM can’t sleep,

all the noise and clatter

party going on all forever

all night long downstairs.

Crawl out the window

in a long gray nightshirt;

sit top the big blue mailbox,

the one down the corner.

If there’s a noise,

scuttle down and hide,

hide between the legs,

legs all scrunched up,

hiding between the legs

of the big blue mailbox.

Feel safe when quiet returns;

crawl back up to the top

of the big blue mailbox.

Eyes wide open ears perked up

always looking, listening

for any sign of danger.

Wait until the lights go out,

climb through the widow,

back home curled-up safe

and bedded down secure;

sleep sound until well past noon.

A Mother's Plea

by Robert E. Jordan © 2000

Sirens howling through the city night,

the Bulls tailed us down twisted tiny streets.

Blocked at the corner of Indiana Avenue and Almond

we screeched to a halt.

Magnum 45s ready and leveled in our direction

the Bulls put mom on the horn.

“Bobby, Bobby please, it's not worth it,

they'll gun you down like a dog,

please I beg of you, this is your mother,

get off the handle bars,

we can work out a deal with the DA.”

It would have been all right,

cept there was that matter

of the overdue book at the library.


I Have Eyes For You

by Robert E. Jordan © 1999

Having spent two years in second grade
I was searching for some way to guarantee
our little educational misunderstanding
didn't perpetuate itself into the next century.

An opportunity presented itself
at the end of the long school year
when I and other small inmates
of our prosaic blue collar prison
gathered in the classroom
for our annual show and tell.

Having friends in high places
at the slaughterhouse I obtained
two lovely, soft, brown bovine eyes,
stems and all kindly donated
to aid my desperate cause.

Carrying them to the front
I opened my little box,
aiming their sad gory stare
at the awesome pedagogic presence.

When the teacher emitted a loud shriek
I knew that third grade would be mine.



by Robert E. Jordan © 2002

On graduating high school in 56,

he stood aloof in his cap and gown.

He didn’t want anyone.

He was a tall clear skinned boy,

blond haired, brown eyed,

his face an inscrutable mask.

His eyes and mouth emotionless.

Always wore the best clothes,

well pressed shirt and pants,

black socks and spit shined shoes.

We envied him his appearance.

Never talked or smiled,

not part of a crowd,

alone, as he wished to be.

He didn’t need to talk.

Everyone knew

what he did at night,

worked the street,

let men hurt him

for money.

The pain was unspeakable.

That was OK,

we didn’t hate him,

he never hurt a soul,

did what he had to do.

He needed the money.

Always took care

of his wizened Mom;

she looked after him,

kept him looking good.

Her silvery straggled hair.

At graduation, they stood alone;

she stared at him with adoration,

held his arm with sharpened claws,

while he coldly looked away.

He knew the secret of the ages.