TOMMY ROBBINS 

 

I’m not a poet.

I don’t even know why I’m writing these lines.

But it seems the best thing to do.

I’ve got to man up,

Stop fumbling a greeting 

Each time she swings past.

The smell of her!

As a kid, I’d roll in the fields,

Crushing the tansies and chamomile

Beneath the back of my Marvel tee;

Their scents spilt all over me,

And I’d lie in them,

Somehow assured that school

And Paul’s cancer and my lost iPod

Would be alright.

That’s how Yvonne smells.

She’s periphery too.

I think we’d understand one another,

If I could just muster an ice

Breaker. I remember when we

Brushed arms. My dark and her pale hairs

Pulled for one another.

I was too shy to apologise.

 

 

YVONNE BLOO

 

These boys-not-men,

These less-than-gentle,

These eyes-not-on-my-eyes.

I hear their filthy dreams,

Conceived each minute

In flush and heat and thighs.

Momma told me, she told me,

The quiet ones are the worst.

And that Tommy Robbins is quiet.

I’ve seen his gawks and ogles,

His nostrils when I’m near.

He’s lust in a pinkish shell.

Last week he touched me,

TOUCHED ME!

I know I heard him moan, 

Like a conscience tasting delicious sin.

He must think about me too;

In his mind he’ll have defiled me 

A hundred ways,

As a quiet boy’s mind will.

Well, he’ll not spoil me in

God’s

Eyes much longer.

I’m up now against his window jamb,

Carrying Pa’s hammer.