Distractions
Jack wears sunglasses
to ogle the young man’s
dimples reddening under
bolder and bolder quips
of the older man’s flirts
to see the smile he admires
while Matt pouts,
“I have dimples too,”
and Jack, “Let me see,”
smiles until distracted
by baby falling, crying,
hugged by mother’s love.
Darkness Safe
Darkness
except for a sunshine
beam descending
to and into
my chest
as I sit
in a wooden chair.
Eyes closed
but staring
upward, inward
through the beam
to geese flying
across the blue sky
to glide and ski
upon the lake
where heads tuck
under wings for
darkness safe
within a womb.
Old Moment
I kneel to check my car tire’s pressure,
but the tire gauge is old,
and no longer works.
What’s with that?!
Tools are supposed to work forever,
and I have a tool that doesn’t work!
Bah!
The tires frown in deflated anticipation
so I decide to squirt air in all of them
until I can buy a new tire gauge
and check them properly.
As I try to stand my legs rebel
and quiver like a pond rippling
after a stone thrown in its gut.
“Great. Here I am a capable woman
checking my own tire pressure
with a tire gauge that doesn’t work
and I can’t stand up! Shit!”
I’ll die out here. A petrified woman statue
kneeling on the pavement parking lot.
An obstacle bigger than a speed bump
for other drivers to swear at.
I am a turtle upside down on its shell.
My legs kick the air. I struggle to right myself.
I want to lie down and let the summer sun
suck the life out of me —
a dried worm rusting on the sidewalk.
I should have gone to the tire store.
I could have kept my old tire gauge.
I could have kept my young legs.
Designated Driver
The man thinks his car deserves
two parking spaces in the crowded lot
or he can’t back up well and uses
the white line as a middle guide backwards.
I want to park so close to his car door
that he can’t get in, and he’d have
to wait until I chose to show up
and exclaim, “Oh, my! I’m so sorry.
I knew I could squeeze in here.
I didn’t think you’d mind.”
Or I’d like to see if he’d open
the passenger door and crawl
over the seat and console
to plop his body behind the wheel;
all the time calling the driver
next door an asshole and bastard
even as he reads the note
under his windshield wiper
repeating his asshole and bastard
designation.
Opens to Darkness
The door opens to darkness.
If I step through,
will I fall for eternity
annoyed by my screaming
and wishing for death
and silence?
The door opens to darkness.
I want to step through
to the blank dream
of imagination quivering
for my offerings.
The door opens to darkness.
A nightmare haunted house
spotlit by scenes barred
between my fingers
covering my eyes wanting
to see but not see.
The door opens to darkness.
A snake pit writhes
just passed the strip
of light once at the threshold
before the door slams
shut.
Diane Webster’s work has appeared in “El Portal,” “North Dakota Quarterly,” “New English Review” and other literary magazines. She had a micro-chap published by Origami Poetry Press in 2022, and one of her poems was nominated for Best of the Net.