Joe Cottonwood

Introduction to Slime

Slicing a square of drywall
from the ceiling of her garage
I reveal with flashlight
the gooey underside
of her shower pan
populated by yellow fungi
shaped like dwarf ears.

She frowns. Because
if she were showering right now
those little saprophytes
peering upward through the drain
would view a close-up of feet
tapering thighs
and the beyond.
Which is creepy but not their fault,
just doing their job, feeding
on wet floor joists.
Slime is always with us
hovering for opportunity.

I ’m here to fix things.
Just doing my job.
I tell her it ’ll cost. But there ’ll be
no more fungal ears down here.
Yours are lovely, by the way.

San Gregorio General Store

How I love the young woman
with slender fingers who takes
my book from the shelf. She blows
dust from the top, bends to read
my poems apparently near-sighted
index finger following words.
I feel caressed.

Purple sweater of rags
black leggings a run from ankle to thigh
a train-track I travel with my eye
possibly a dancer
possibly homeless
swaying her hips to the bluegrass band
but—Oh!—scarlet drops fall to the page
then a gushing
her hand to her nose “Shit!” she says
dropping the book on the counter
grabbing a napkin she runs out
to the barbwire ranch land
pressing her nostril.

How I love the swarthy man
in cutoff jeans wide hat
looks like an off duty cowboy
on a stool at the bar
lifts the bloody ruined book
pinches a quarter tween thumb and finger
looks questioningly at old George
who shrugs and accepts.

Limping favoring one hip
takes the book to a truck tailgate open
watched by skeptical black angus
under soaring red-tail hawk
where the young woman is waiting
with a grin and a bottle of wine.
Together they read.

 

Joe Cottonwood has repaired hundreds of houses to support his writing habit among the redwood trees in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California. His website is joecottonwood.com