Poem of the Month - Surfer Joe

Surfer Joe
by Betty Dobson

Each day you roll

past on your spindly bike
weaving along the pebbled road,
your vision
straight as a spoke. 

Where do your eyes lead? Away

from your smoke-gray shack and red-
blanket curtain over plastic
pane.

You first appeared

a twilight apparition
draped in rough crimson,
leaning on your sill
as I hid behind mine.

You still don't see me.

Your eyes must aim inward,

back to the beached Sixties,
counting on waves for an afternoon
trip. Weed in the night
carried your dreams of water-
wheels rolling

until the air leaked out.

They couldn't hold the path like you
or swallow the salt-water
vow.  Ten years
spent waiting then selling
what little you had
for a Florida reunion
of one.

Sold out, you crawled back

home.  Abandoned
vans and soft-hearted neighbors
held you loosely.

Now you ride by like a desert surfer,

in and out on the hour.
If I follow you out, where
will I find you?  Alone
on the dock, watching
your weed-grayed

reflection.  A derelict

boat wallows in the shallows,
engine rusted and
bones slowly
crushed
in a negligent embrace.

If you enjoyed "Surfer Joe" and want to read more of my poetry, please consider buying a copy of Paper Wings.

Poem of the Month - Gagetown Reflexes

Once a month, I'll share one of my own poems.

First up is "Gagetown Reflexes," one of my personal favourites. I was inspired by actual events, a moment that stuck in my head until I had no choice but to put it into words, first as rough prose in a fiction writing class and finally in more polished form in poetry class.

Gagetown Reflexes

by Betty Dobson

The tiny flame flickers and fights to keep burning, but slowly

dies. A red ember remains on the wick, glowing, then goes out.

She has no fear of the night—her bunker of silence and peace.

The odd car whispers by as rain taps on the window, lonely, excluded.

Black softens to grays, shifting as if alive. She watches from bed,

rapt by the shapes that form and vanish with each breath she takes.

The old radiator breaks through the silence—a harsh rhythm.

Three hard beats, a brief lull. Four beats and another

teasing pause. The shadows remain, circling like cautious invaders.

The wool blanket betrays its warmth, stinging her to

movement. Fresh from manoeuvres, he pins her with slumbering ease.

She stares down at his dark limb, so solid against her own skin.

The gap between them widens as she counts off each year in her mind.

He snorts, rolls onto his back. A streetlight eclipses his profile.

Free of his touch, she retreats to the hazy comfort of nicotine.

Deep breaths, measured and slow. She closes her

eyes to the shadows, finding a clearer form of darkness.

Time slips back by hours. Once more his fingers dance the

thin wires. His whisper coaxes beauty from a motorcycle ballad.

Tiny flickers fill the air, like shards of Cupid’s updated arsenal.

The radiator beats a fresh refrain, startled fingers drop the

smouldering butt. Catch it up before the fire; hold the ember

until it fades. Paper and ash, afloat in last night’s beer.

She steps tenderly through the glowing dark, back to the edge.

Rain so steady it coats the glass; soft light shears the veil.

The scent of him rises like spice. She leans close to taste his ear.

Reaction is instant—an aerial turn propelled by instinct. She feels

his wide, fearful stare but can’t see past his upraised shaking fist.

"Gagetown Reflexes" is included in my poetry collection, Paper Wings., currently available on Amazon.com.