Kevin Carey
The Cave
And just like that
I’m back there in the closet
in the bedroom where I grew up
behind the winter coats
hanging in plastic bags
the smell of mothballs
my back against the sheetrock
cool and slick.
I’m crouched in the dark
looking at the slivers of light
around the warped door frame
hiding from the kids in the schoolyard
trying to get me to fight
from the parents yelling at other
parent’s kids
from the gangsters up the street
from the crazy drunks on the boulevard
from the angry teenager I’d become.
I’m reaching back into the corner
where the air is still and dark
listening to the clawing outside,
the shadow people
pacing back and forth on the rug
slipping their long slender fingers
under the door frame and whispering:
come out, come out,
you can’t hide in there all day.
Truck Stop Dreaming
One day I sat in a truck stop
listening to Marketplace on NPR
and imagining that I had investments.
I watched the big rig traffic cruising
in and out, guys in baseball hats
hoping down for coffee and donuts,
and it got me thinking like a cowboy
about being on the highway somewhere else,
the road dusty and exotic
and I thought maybe I should have been a truck driver
rolling my way through The Great Divide
early mornings on The Tappan Zee
a midnight run to Vegas on Route 66.
I could have lived the life of a hard driving man,
strong black coffee and cheap whiskey
and hash and eggs for lunch
silver-padded diner stools from Bangor to Fresno.
Maybe I would have rolled into town
with a heavy-handed whistle
winked at the waitress I met on my last run
maybe sang a song in some blue neon saloon,
each day a different place
each day a road trip
each day rolling with the radio whining
about NASDAQ or some other place, exotic.
Autumn
Today I will remove my air conditioner
and sweep the colored leaves from the sill
and marvel at how fast the summer goes (again)
and while brothers and sisters gather
to cheer at the grid iron madness
I’ll read creative writing papers
and drink hot tea with milk and honey
knowing that soon the little people
will march at night, witches, goblins, zombies,
their hungry sacks open
their body guards shinning flashlights behind them
the moon slipping into an evening cloud
the great trees dying at their feet
the winter winds tuning up around the corner.
Kevin Carey is the Coordinator of Creative Writing at Salem State University. He is the author of a chapbook of fiction, The Beach People (Red Bird Chapbooks) and three books of poetry from CavanKerry Press, The One Fifteen to Penn Station, Jesus Was a Homeboy, which was selected as an Honor Book for the 2017 Paterson Poetry Prize, and the recently released Set in Stone (2020). Murder in the Marsh from Darkstroke Books, his first crime novel, was released in October of 2020. Kevin is also co-editor of Molecule: A Tiny Lit Mag. Kevincareywriter.com
