gas station attendant

artwork: ralph murre

gas station attendant

by Irene Koronas

“it takes discipline,” he confesses

his side stare

hesitant to give too much information

about ways to win at the horse track

handsome

movie star handsome

he pumps gas when not betting at the kentucky derby

or whatever track remains open

horses or dogs who run for sport

father was more handsome than most men

mother close to the ground, boxy skirts uniform her

every weekend coins clicked on dining room table

charley fiddled, freddie his brother sang

angie worked in the shoe factory with mother

harry policed our town

stuie loved older women

joe married my aunt when tony died

poker players coin our days, the pot often won with 2 pairs

father slapped cards hard, for him lose

always came. he lost more than most men

week days, father played cards in his cobbler shop

mother works 8 to 5, factory noise punctures her ear drum

a long corridor led to the toilet in the back of his shop

on wednesday father went to wonder land horse track

I sat across from a long mirror, watching myself grow

listening to rhythm and blues on his radio

the twang of desert boots, not tall enough for american boys

my hand reaches quarters in cash register when left alone

the handsome gas station attendant hands me my change

~ first published in Wilderness House Literary Review

jazz at the someday cafe

photo: ralph murre

                        jazz at the someday café

                                                      by irene koronas

                              after all the questions

after all the lovers

after being a carnal queen

after you leave saturday night

                                sirens cause my head to turn

thelonious monk in the background

as if smoking keeps people thin\while

nicotine destroys a liar

as if your penis found a home,

scribe’s momentary gesture, you

tattoo cigarette holes on the linoleum

                                

land of d.n.a.

black and white summer stations. baby

let me carry your box

                                 try to be pleasant-it is fathers day

                                 beauty on every bus. right right

                                 those paint stain trousers, pollock flags

brain scan

we all try to connect dots

paint horses, tin houses on wheels

neon ice cream cones

without need, smile people

walk by pigeons from other side

                                   there never was a question

~ previously published in after

monday

monday
by Irene Koronas

our village priest wears faded blue robe and a holy hat.
he drives his tractor back from his garden with the
detached look of one who has lived with God more years
than his youth

breeze brushes weeds, my gray hair. pheasant hurries
from one olive tree to another. women knead the dough
prepare cheese to stuff inside. wood beside the gray ovens
in every courtyard

relatives have been coming to the village since yesterday
everyone readies for the end of lent is near

the children play during church service
the old women bow, bend, bless themselves
the old priest holds onto alter for support

I walk the fields, foothills
the distance men wear

wild wheat in morning sun hums
bugs, birds, chickens,
dull yellow against sky chimes

snails cling under orange palms, bright pink freesia
queen ann’s lace, wild geraniums, the great mystery
koliva, boiled barley, confectionery for the dead


~ first published in Pentakomo Cyprus (Cervana Barva Press)