Poetry Showcase: “Right Hand Man” by Will Schmit

Right Thumb

I repair your guitar in 
a bathtub of broken glass. 
The high e string bends  
as I’ve no expert hands, 
everything’s slick inside
the velveteen case; hollow 
body ready to ache, fatty
frets thick enough to stop 
a house from falling. It’s
one for the money, 2 for
a long scar down the rib
cage. A rock steady pulse
dependent on your hand
around the skinny neck. 
Clear the throat wounds, 
allow the wah-wah pedal
to leap from the bridge
into a sea of flashing bic
lighters humming an arc
of stimulated veins an
octave above start.

Right Index Finger

Jimmied my car door
by a thumbnail moon
for a day job in star
dark California wild
green Suburus park
to propagate at Vista
Pointe the surf is too
much of its own thing
to be of interest or use
telephone poles felled
by the wind propped
upright as candles on
a cake await the next
quake to test settling
a tsunami warning is
scheduled annually to
allow low land cattle 
some time to adjust
herons, cranes, geese
flock to muck beyond
cameras or spy glass.

Right Middle Finger

I’m stitching tie-dyed 
checkered flags for a
new wave. Come rain
or storming boots an
enemy is common as 
snarling dogs. Friends
run red light between 
emergencies, save our
place in a line of sand
bags holding the river.
Comb shag carpet w/
split-level super lotto
logic polish the temple
floor in sun streaking
amber dust slate blue
canopy in swallowtail
yellow let the cat paw
out of Papa’s Brand 
New gag order and
scatter feathers fine
and far from the hunt.

Right Ring Finger

I brought my cheap suit 
to the launderette. Hung
from my arm like a wild 
west scarecrow, the grey
vertical threads, so chic 
decades ago, match my
weathervane eyebrows, 
cuffs collect dust good as 
any dictionary. I remember 
how proud Mama was, me 
at the graduation lectern, 
ignoring my notes, riffing 
on a particulate tone, my 
pocket square arresting 
the audience, the phonetic 
spelling of God, the pleat 
of my corduroy rubbing 
Aladdin’s lamp as I spilled 
my guts in vitro. The dry
cleaner suggests pressing,
pats the pockets for a gun.

Right Pinkie Finger

The pinkest blossoms fall 
to the gray street. The sun,
like a comedian, turns fun
into a drought. Year in year
out, commemorate lost bees,
search the ice shelf for new
definitions, kindling is just
a word for wilderness, bears 
pose for selfies with salmon, 
drones picnic downstream
a coyote claws an abandoned
bus another famous hiker 
leaves a notebook or a watch
on a teeter totter of stones in
full view of an arsonist making
bad decisions. Try explaining
New Year’s to a washed out
bridge, use the twisted metal
rails to spell check Celsius.
An emergency phone number
sputters, my breath on hold
music is worth a bird in hand.  

Find more from Will here: 


By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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