Robert VanderMolen

Inside, they were polishing the floor: Planks pried from a sunken schooner Dried out, worm holes intact – so that If you spilled your drink, some of it Could possibly drip into the cellar (which was older than the schooner, walls of river limestone mixed with brick of a trading post called Whiskey Center – during the War of 1812 partisans had hidden behind barrels of...

How it was, after the babies, One week’s vacation at the shore During late July, trying to isolate A hummock of time in which to be dazed, Beer in the mug, the slant of sunsets, Fried chicken seasoned with sand. All of us thinner, sweat-dried, more prone To anger. With a housecat prowling Through dune grass . . .

And they made a film of it. I’ve forgotten The name of the...

Sometime later he was hit By a train – head lowered in the cold, Somewhat deaf by the age of 50. Not so repentant as startled, As in a movie where the dying man Gazes at some bird or cloud But still wouldn’t go to church Even if he could be carried. Among those middens of doubt Escaping seemed like a robust plan. But he didn’t know precisely What she was talking about. Her...

I don’t believe she married him Because he was in the fish business Remarked Lois, which quieted The ensemble some

From upstairs. An old Leonard Cohen tune

It was unfortunate the Attorney-General was involved, If at a distance

Lois was the sister of the AG Her husband puffy and long on anecdotes The banker at a bank that defaulted

In the spacious woodlot behind the house...

As avidity circulated about the soccer game A bear lingered, nosing among the spruces, Under damp boughs, sampling scents, perching Briefly on a stump, while remaining curious, Until, on impulse, it stepped out on its hind legs, Causing the playing field to empty in a hurry, As in a monster film from the 1950s, a fog Of silence filtered in or should I say descended – Not far from the...