2015 -- 7.2 (Spring) Poetry


By Clint Theron

Whispering wonderfully, we reminisce over the time
when you were casually mooning
over that Mexican boy wearing a green
hoodie.  Hur-rawr-doh?  I never can pronounce it right.
It beats lying sprawled out on the couch, eating Sun Chips
and getting stoned.

But hey, I don’t throw stones,
and if you ever make the time
for me, we should go out and get some fish and chips.
Or play miniature golf when the moon
is bright, like when we were kids.  But right
now I’m lurking outside your house in my green

Ford Escort.  Just kidding, I’m not that green
with envy.  Instead, I’m at the beach, kicking pebbles and stones
with someone less entertaining than you and pretending everything is all right.
I look at my watch to see the time.
Midnight?  The moon
is way too bright, it burns my flesh.  I need ice chips

to cool my temperature.  I realize you’re a chip
off the old block, you dyed your hair green
to rebel, like your mother did when she listened to The Dark Side of the Moon
to her parents’ dismay.  Now she rocks to The Rolling Stones
when she thinks no one is looking.  Ashamed to defy time
because it’s just not right

for a 50 year old woman to sway left and right
to the tunes of yesteryear.  It must have chipped
away at you to realize you’ve been so similar all this time.
But now you’re living with Hur-rawr-doh in his green
house and picking out matching Tombstones
when you haven’t even had your Honeymoon.

There was that night when the moon
was full, and we sat right
on top of your car and wondered who built Stonehenge,
and who was the better rodent: Chip
or Dale?  And if we would see the grassy green
European plains tomorrow, or some time.

The moon shines all the same with craters like chocolate chips,
but we were right not to eat them, we’ve already eaten those green
éclairs.  And like a stone wall, our friendship is weathered but sturdy with time.


Bio: Clint Theron is a Library Assistant at the SCF Bradenton campus.