poems by owen lucas

Quiet afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Telesco
potter round the kitchen so mousey
not-even-a-peep you could sleep and not
dream. Mrs. T stands, busy tidy pursed
lips, thin specs and amber ear rings,
at the counter folding Mr.'s boxers,
goofs with him while he's straining
his eyes at soldering that he's more pairs
than she has, and in so many pretty
colours. He's botching resistors onto a
Radio Shack circuit board, insisting
it's the cheapest crap to try to build
computers on, but what the hell it must
be done this Sunday or bust, Google
just gaffer-taped consoles and fused 'em
and they had millions to blow. He's
trying to build the world-computer,
hardwiring himself into Gaia, Frank-
ensteining hunched over grey-browed
dense and wise, snipping red wires, hot
iron in hand. Mrs. T has another kind
of monster brewing, almost cackling
gleeful as she heaves beef sides
into the big crock pot, farting the last
BBQ sauce from the upturned bottle
over the red hunks, maniacal smile
as she eyes the concoction, "I shoulda
been a butcher." No but really,
they speak all this only hushed,
getting on slowly with necessary tasks
as it's Independence Day tomorrow.
Kathleen comes in, plops her purse
down on the counter, twitches her skirt.
The flowers at the hem sway like
children's faces on a fairground ride.