Jan/Feb 2018 Poetry

Two Poems

by Bob Bradshaw

Textile Photo Art by Jeffrey Trespel

Textile Photo Art by Jeffrey Trespel

Stuck at the Airport

I lean back in a chair,
Mozart playing in my airpods.

Why shouldn't I be able to cope
without obsessing

on the cancellations,
the long lines?

Mozart, wandering
all day in search of jobs

would amuse himself
by composing as he shuffled

through the cold air.
Some days his compositions

in his head were as heady
as falling in love, tunes to sing

even as his dear Constanze
struggled at home

with their accounting,
their debts piling up

like the snow drifts
outside their apartment.

Weren't there only gaudy snuffboxes
from Europe's royalty

between them and hunger?
Yet Wolfi coming through the door

would be in a good mood,
confident another overture

like warm weather was approaching.
He would dismiss

her worries... Weren't
the pawn shops



Our blue cadillac, big as a great shark,
sailed down the freeway, waves

of water leaping out of our way
like flying fish. We felt good,

a Friday night with money
in our pockets,

headed into the City.
Bill saw her first,

her hooves bunched

leaning from the median's island,
as if she was about to jump

a creek. God, no...
We could see everything in slow

motion. The panicked leap
by the doe, our car braking

as if on ice,
and her floating ever so slowly

towards us—the loud whomp,
our hood popping,

the air filling with smoke.
We scrambled out, the grill

caved in, but this beautiful
creature lying in a pile—

gashed open.
On our steaming engine lay

her heart, somehow thrown
from her body at impact.

I'm shaken, even years later,
by how quickly we took a life.

At night, unable to sleep,
I still see her lying on the road,

her head twisted up at us,
a glint of light fading

from her big


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