“The Barge of Empty Spirits” and “Whitman’s Meatloaf “

By James Lowell

 

 

The Barge of Empty Spirits

Long after the great war ended,

an optimistic crew of recruits descended

to padlock the island’s observation bunkers.

Without an archaeologist to plumb the depths

of these receptacles of crushed cans and glass

bottles, the history of drinking and drinkers is trashed.

Where rusty water stains and graffiti remain

as if initials could tell a lover’s tale,

the privates are sniggering at sluffed condoms.

Come day’s end, their marine plywood blinds

windows, trapdoors sweat beads of solder,

and the barge of empty spirits rattles

down the channel like a ghost in chains.

 

 

 

Whitman’s Meatloaf 

Preheat memory to 365.

Butter a coffin, dove-sized.

Unearth a large daffodil-colored bowl, 

Plant it on the counter’s marble.

Hatch two eggs from the refrigerator’s shell.

Herd the world’s smallest, mixed-up cow

Into the daffodil bowl’s corral. 

Salt that wound while shedding several

Onion tears at its funeral.

Consider the virtues of sage and thyme.

Leave black peppers (tongue grenades),

As a mouthfeel minefield.

Be liberal with the blood of the ketchup king.

Reign supreme with a wooden spoon.

Fill the dove’s coffin and say a prayer

That memory will serve enough fare—

Let the spirit loaf, and you’ll be there.

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