6 Poems by Jason Heroux
Winter vista
These short winter mornings.
The early hours when even
the clocks have little to do,
leaning against the walls
with fidgety hands.
I glance outside
and see bare
winter trees
empty as jail cells
with their doors left open,
and the sun broken
down and stripped
for parts.
In the parking lot
a man brushes the crisp
white sheet of snow off
his cold car as if identifying
a body at the morgue,
and the houses by the side
of the road all stare
in the same direction:
faces in an elevator
avoiding each other.
These short
winter mornings,
early hours when
the sad-eyed houses
look tired of always
being outdoors
and cars hurry through
the streets like insects
with only three days to live.
The dog woke up
The dog woke up and stretched his legs. But I’m not a dog, the dog said. I’m a human being. The dog took a shower, ate some breakfast, and drove to work. Please stop calling me a dog, the dog said. You’re giving people the wrong impression. It’s not fair. After work the dog drove home, watched a little television, and then prepared dinner. Listen, whoever you are, for the last time, I’m not a dog, the dog said, and looked a little sad. The dog started to cry. But I’m not even crying. This is ridiculous, the dog said, with tears in his eyes.
Odd-Sized Screws Kept In A Drawer
The traffic sparkles and glints under the sun,
cameras flashing at a special event. The world
drains the window’s glass with one long gulp.
Grasstrumpets sway in the earth’s orchestra.
The clock ticks clearing stones from a field.
We cling to life like chimney smoke
above the dark rooftops of our shadows.
We’ll die and get put aside for a while
like odd-sized screws kept in a drawer.
Even if we never get used for anything again
it’ll feel okay to stretch out freely for once.
It’ll feel okay holding nothing together.
Flower shop
An old woman
pushing a stroller
paused in front
of a flower shop.
She stood on her
own dark shadow
as if it was a bridge
she was afraid to cross.
I’m not sure what
went through her mind.
She put on her gloves,
a chill was in the air,
and continued on her way.
All this happened years ago.
The flower shop is now torn
down and the woman is gone.
I watched her disappear around
the corner and then closed my eyes.
I’m not sure what went through my mind.
The Sea Never Drowns
Clouds in the sky don’t know that they’re clouds,
stones in the path go wherever they’re kicked.
I don’t expect to win prizes for being myself.
The traffic driving home sounds like the traffic
heading out. The parked bulldozer panics
at the edge of a large construction-site hole.
Sometimes a rusted bolt blurts out the truth
and tells us we have work we don’t know about.
We get paid every time we take a breath.
Who asks the crickets in the dark grass
to shut up in order to hear them better?
Although it can’t swim, the sea never drowns.
I like hearing noisy trucks celebrate
the uneven road but I also enjoy,
when the traffic has gone,
the sound of the road on its own.
Postcard from a parking lot
We’re having a wonderful time.
It’s so quiet and peaceful.
The summer dust silently
drifts through the late
evening light like coins
in an out-of-order jukebox.
Last night we saw an army
of ants scurry over the ragged
hillside of a half-eaten apple.
And tomorrow we’re setting out
on a long journey just to hear
our shoes click against
the pavement like forks
scraping around
the bottom of a jar.
