William Heath has published four poetry books: The Walking Man, Steel Valley Elegy, Going Places, and Alms for Oblivion; two chapbooks: Night Moves in Ohio and Inventing the Americas; three novels: The Children Bob Moses Led (winner of the Hackney Award), Devil Dancer, and Blacksnake’s Path; a work of history, William Wells and the Struggle for the Old Northwest (winner of two Spur Awards and the Oliver Hazard Perry Award); and a collection of interviews, Conversations with Robert Stone. He lives in Annapolis. www.williamheathbooks.com
Men’s Book Club
They quit on One
Hundred Years of
Solitude in the first
chapter. I point out,
to no avail, the author
won the Nobel Prize
and his novel was
a huge best seller on
several continents,
but they aren’t having
any of that, they know
what they don’t like.
What they go for are
blockbuster books,
The American Sniper
by a guy named Flynn,
the hero is CIA, kills
nefarious enemies on
a regular basis,
always finds a babe
to hop into bed with
even though they met
an hour before.
Flynn died several years ago,
but not to worry
ghost writers crank out
Flynn-like novels that fly
off bookstore shelves.
The numbers of dead
bad guys incrementally rise
and isn’t that a new babe
batting her eyes at our hero
in the hotel lobby?
I want to tell the men
in our book club that
this kind of crap is
the male equivalent
of Harlequin Romance,
only those are based on
the kind of sentimentality
females fall for, once it
was Raoul and his yacht,
now it’s the empowered
woman holding a gun
in both hands if necessary
and choosing whether
to shack up or not.
The male version is
a formulaic macho fantasy
of being the toughest kid
on the block or foreign country
if you are a sniper for the CIA.
Despite impossible odds
you outwit all foes, bed any
babe that happens to come
your way. Yet sex is only
an afterthought, preferably
a quickie, since a real man
has a hit list to finish off
before calling it a day.
Walt and the Supremes
The supernatural of no account, myself waiting
my time to be one of the supremes. —Song of Myself 41
Walt predicted it and I’m sure
he’d fit right in if he shaved
his beard, permed his hair into
an Afro to match Diana Ross.
He’d have to lose a few pounds
and find a long sequined gown
to go with the other vocalists
strutting their stuff on the stage.
I have some doubts whether
his barbaric yawp would blend
in with the group, but he was always
a singer, even if his songs were
rather self-centered. If iPhones
had existed at the time I’m sure
he would have taken more than
his share of selfies, but we’re
talking about great music here,
whether on the stage or page,
and Whitman certainly belongs
among the Supremes.
Prime Time
My wife, I am sure of it,
is having an affair with a guy
who drives a truck, drops
by on a regular basis, leaves
nicely packaged presents
on our front porch. I bring
them in to hand over to her
and don’t stand around until
she opens them. I want to be
discreet about all this, we’re
both mature adults, I respect
her freedom and independence,
so we don’t talk about it.
I swallow my pride, yet dread
the next day, his next visit,
the cocky devil even rings
the doorbell, leaves his gift,
and drives away in the same
truck as always, the one
with Prime on its side.
Who’s Crazy Now?
Back in the days when people
who talked to themselves
on the street were crazy,
no longer institutionalized
due to some well-intentioned
reform that didn’t turn out
as expected. Now if you see
people on the sidewalk not
talking to themselves,
or not staring at a dark object
the size of a cheap paperback
in their hand, they just might
be one of a shrinking minority
who don’t walk around with
an iPhone as their closest
companion. They might leave
the damn thing in their car
for use in an emergency.
They might be someone
like me.
Bass Man
Your true bass fisherman wears
his cap backwards so the wind
hitting his speeding boat
doesn’t send it flying out over
the lake, where a hungry wide
mouth may take a big bite
out of the brim. His Bronco with
tinted windows, outsized tires,
and fog lights popping out like
the eyes of a frog, tows his
sleek boat to a bass-hole bayou.
Blue smoke from big outboards
curls across the lake, blending
with the early morning fog.
When storm clouds gather, darkly
laden with moisture, he knows damn
well it could rain cats and dogs.
He is a patient man even if
the bass aren’t biting that day.
His idea of great television is
watching a man in a bass boat
cast his line into a placid lake
and sit there for hours until
the bobbin earns its name.
The Galway Review 