Henry Beckett
(and his reasonable facsimile)

I saw the devil one clear summer morning on my constitutional. He drove a rusty multi-
colored pick-up with red doors. The tailpipe, held by a coat hanger, blew thick black
and gray brimstone. His dog rode in the bed, tethered by a chain that clanged as they
rolled down the boulevard to look for the occasional sinner. His cab was rarely empty.

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Another day, another walk. From clearing skies came the burn ban: him dressed in a
tuxedo, standing with his new bride in the front yard. She is stoic, dressed in her finest
dirge: for Sally. Mrs. Beckett posed for pictures as the dog snapped at her train.

============================

And yes, the devil goes to work. His music blasted, his muffler rumbled, and he gave
me the nod. His wife made deviled eggs for his lunch, along with a slice of devil’s food
cake…nothing else. She glared at me as I am a good acquaintance of her husband.
He looked at the kupie doll that hoola’d in his rearview: and me.

============================

There’s been a death in his family. A gathering of the soul-less meandered in the yard
while the dog ate scraps that fell from their empty plates. He stood there on his porch,
and took a long, slow drag on his cigar: nothing but Immensa. I paused for a moment
to acknowledge his loss, and then continued my walk on the uneven sidewalk without
care.

=================================

He made bird feeders to sell which sat beneath a shady tree. As his wife straightened
the “For Sale” sign, and I watched their union move in her taunt belly. He slowly sipped
from his glass seated in his rocking chair; a toothy grin peeped out beneath his milk
moustache. The dog snarled, free to cruise the fence line next to me. Shoes stray from
the sidewalk

to open the gate…




American Men Don’t Write Poetry

He walks into my diner filled with flies which endlessly circle in the center of the room
beneath the dusty ceiling fan light. They greet customers with red eyes and greasy
wings; buzzing as they make their zig-zag motion above patrons’ heads. I pour a cup of
coffee and set it on counter for him: his usual. It vibrates in synch with the motorcycle
idling on the sidewalk outside.

We are always here: The flies. The man. Me.

He cuts the end from a cigar with short snips; mouthing the end with his tongue and lips;
scribbling notes on the back of a dirty napkin while the rains fall on the window

pane. He waits for the next thought, lights his stogie under the “no smoking” sign, and
begins yet another nonsensical stanza as he takes me in, draws me with words into
crusted catsup. I tell him to be a poet you must wear glasses, have a three-word name,
and love cats. He snarls, and taps his ashes into his coffee cup.

I know he’ll be here tomorrow as we’re always here in this dirty diner. Neither one of
us can go home. We watch the droopy-panted boys splash in puddles. The last of the
flowers are always weeds.