March Snowballs

Kathy is a waitress,
tray loaded,
eight hours into
a five hour shift,
a night of drinking
still in her head.

A sneakered foot catches on
a beige wrinkle
in the dining room carpet.
Four plates filled
with yellow eggs,
red home fries
and brown meat,
meant for the conspirators
hunched around table seven,
crashes to the ground
like a symphony
tumbling off a cliff.

Michael argues his suicide
with indecision.
Sitting on a couch of
rough avocado cloth,
a 45 in his lap,
talking for what seems
like hours,
but it’s only been
three minutes.

“Why shouldn’t I?” he says,
“You’ve been asking for months
and I’m tired of hearing your voice
inside my head.”
Only a letter from his little sister
keep his hands clenched
by his sides.

Frank’s been injecting
since he was 14;
and what’s so crazy
about that?
Stealing for a fix is just
what you do;
besides, grandma has
so many pills
she’d never miss a few.

Thirty bucks each for Percocet*
and only eight for the fix;
people should admire his
thrift and sense of economics.

We are snowballs
made in March;
rolled by children
eager for another throw;
a thin layer of winter’s
last white gasp,
collecting bits of twig,
grey grass
and pebbles
along the way;
never meant
to be perfect,
only to be loved
for the arc we make
across the steel grey sky.

Copyright 2019 by C. Max Schenk - all rights reserved - my right to act on impulse most especially

*PERCOCET® is a Registered Trademark of Endo Pharmaceuticals Inc.