I ALREADY GAVE AT THE OFFICE
by Michael L. Newell

Bah, scolded the ragged man, open
the door, I hear the t.v. cackling, and know
your wee ones and your spouse lie scattered
chair and floor in dumb amusement.

Don't abuse my intellect by silent
neglect of my rap rap tapping on your
dwelling's door; I know you're there, and can
share warmth, food, and lodging, if

you'd but dare to fling open
your house to a thing poor, diseased,
and ill at ease in polite company;
what blight might I inflict

on ones who have so much and I
so little, whittled to bone and scrimped
flesh by my lack, my lackluster luck,
my lost days on wandering streets

where I scavenge with others of my ilk
for what scraps can be found, moldy
crusts a la carte, milk curdled
and garnished with rotting fruits and vegetables.

Don't leave me banging away out here
too long, a throng like me might gather
and wreck this place altogether, the anger
unleashed might reach the length

of the block or further, might
detonate other explosions all over town,
then no one would be around to enjoy
your creature comforts, your casual caresses, to employ

your language of plenty, of control, of disdain
for the very notion of pain, open I say
before time decays these walls and all within
to thin stalks of despair like those

of us who wander lost outside, who slog
through day like it was night, and wear
the night like it was a shoddy suit too familiar
to discard, too worn to be seen in.

Open or I'll huff and I'll puff
till the neighborhood is filled with air
unfit to breathe. Open or I'll smear
your doors and windows with fecal matter

left by your pets who feed better
than I do. Open or I'll rip your garden
out and plant decaying asphalt under your windows.
Open or I'll tell your neighbors we're related. Open...

THE PORCELAIN EYE
by Richard William Pearce

belonged to great great grandfather,
who was a corpse before great grandfather's birth;
and how the loss of the real eye,
the flesh eye, occurred, is wholly suppositional.
Perhaps a thief in an alleyway with
a rusty knife claimed the eye
in addition to my ancient relative's purse.
Or perhaps it was some mishap on
the midwestern farm, the dust
and sweat of that day's work
making panic more immediate,
dispossession more theistic.
Perhaps the loss came at the hands of
his Union brothers of the Civil War,
a war in which he briefly fought
and then fled from, a deserter.
Or perhaps I'm descended from
a gambler with hard debts.
Perhaps the eye was lost to disease;
perhaps, lost to mere horseplay.
Perhaps a gun was aimed true,
but there occurred a tragic backfire;
perhaps, it fired aright. Whatever the scenario,
an eye was lost.
Such an integral piece,
and such a personal one.
The replacement, though serving no utility,
is nevertheless stunningly beautiful,
a creation deserving a museum case
more than an empty socket.
Who is the artist? What is his name?
I am tempted to say his work is more lovely
than any living eye of God's conception.
Down through the generations, this item
has come to me. I laugh as the cat nervously
bats it across the rug. My toothless baby daughter,
who sucks the eye like hard candy,
will marvel, as she grows, at its flawlessness.