Shattered

It’s just a word, but if the feeling fits
then it’s time to pick yourself up
and plant yourself into a new pair of pants.
Take a trip to a place that begins with the letter Y.
Notice how many faces have one red eye and one black.
Sit in front of a babbling brook and babble to yourself
about how the world misunderstands you.
Go to a library and take out a book at random.
Read from page 187 to 191 counting all the ifs, ands, and buts.
If they total less than a thousand it means a distant relative
is going to die and leave you a lot of money.
Back home, put on some old movies you watched as a kid:
Swiss Family Robinson, The Music Man, Flipper,
and Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea.
If you still don’t feel any better, it’s probably your own fault
and there isn’t much your therapist or anyone else can do for you.
You may as well get back into bed and keep your eyes closed—
try not to remember. . .

Like So Many Of Us

As I was walking through the underground
on my way to catch a streetcar home, I saw this pigeon
drinking from a puddle of Colt 45 malt liquor,
the open can lying beside him.

I thought to myself, “If one can’t relate to a lowly pigeon
trying to feel better by getting intoxicated,
then one will never understand the plight of millions.”

And as I walked away I wondered if the pigeon
would find his way home.

or wander aimlessly through the night…

Jeffrey Zable is a teacher and conga drummer who plays Afro-Cuban folkloric music for dance classes and Rumbas around the San Francisco Bay Area. His poetry, fiction and non-fiction have appeared in hundreds of magazines and anthologies since the mid 70’s. Recent writing in Kentucky Review, Serving House Journal, Flint Hills Review, After The Pause, Uppagus, Abbreviate Journal, The Vein, Weirderary, Houseboat (featured poet), Chaos Poetry Review (featured poet) 2015 Rhysling Anthology, and many others.