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Kathy Babcock
Fall 2007
Cutting Pictures Out of Books
Then the phone rings. We have fun,
don't we? Cutting pictures out of books.
The machine picks up. When does
school start? Look! The door is open
and the dog got out. Would you like
a glass of milk? The doctor says
breathe in. And out. Should I wear white?
Or wait on the car to stop? At eight
o'clock it isn't even dark. Do you
smell gas? Smoke and ruin? Revenge
or guilt? Now be good. Tell me
why the dog won't bark. Your father and I
are going out and the doctor
only wants to hear you talk.
An Instance of Complacency
There, I've said it:
I like things pat
the animals two by two
if this, then that
and though
the morning paper
brings news of poems,
it also says
I've no reason
to be jealous
and further reports
that most physicians
lie to patients,
saying god only knows
how much time is left
for eating plums at breakfast
and other particulars
of the universe.
La Terreur N'est Pas Francaise
The key finally fit the lock
but as soon as I said my name
I had no idea what I meant
which anyway is French, is it not?
let alone English and/or German,
to tell yourself the same old dirty joke
when the windows are painted shut
the stars are painted out
when you can't read and never talk
except to curse your luck and knock.
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Kathy Babcock's poems have appeared in Blue Collar Review and HazMat Review. She lives in Fort Myers, Florida, where she works in a bookstore when not writing poetry."
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