Poetry: Selections From Edward Anki
Battered
I’m waiting in line
at the liquor store
when I notice him a
couple of boozers
ahead of me, his
hoodie streaked with blood.
He is carrying a
bottle of amber rum
which he places in
front of the aged cashier.
I am carrying two
bottles of German Riesling.
Despite his bloodied
hoodie,
a blackened eye,
two absent front
teeth,
he smiles at the
cashier
(she returns his
smile).
He accepts his
change,
graciously.
Happiness
You toppled your
second daiquiri.
The kind waitress
provided you with a third,
free of charge.
Afterwards we wandered
Ottawa’s ByWard
Market – my back
was hurting and you
were singing
Old McDonald Had
A Farm.
Now and then you’d
swerve
across the sidewalk,
remind me
that it was my duty
to keep you
walking straight.
Two and one half
daiquiris – your
toppled drink
embarrassment deep
in the past.
Freedom
Aside from the
dullness
of the work
it was the
expectation
of ambition
which was most
painful.
To be satisfied
with my low rung
coordinator position
–
such disgrace.
In the bars in which
I had slogged
for nearly two
decades
prior to that first
office job
nobody cared about
me
nobody cared about
my
ambition or lack
thereof.
Nobody
cared.
Breath
It's my mother's
birthday.
Her 78th.
We order nine ground
beef tacos,
two cheeseburgers,
two large onion
rings.
The total after tax,
tip,
and delivery
fee with our 40%
discount
coupon is $51.36.
The food is
delivered
(slight delay
because of the snowstorm).
The food is
excellent.
We (myself and my
girlfriend)
sing my mother happy
birthday. A slice of
cheesecake
with a single
burning candle.
My mother blows out
the flame.
Arrivals
I’ve waited all year
for this moment.
Christmas Eve.
My mother’s
backyard.
A beer in hand.
A cigarette about to
be lit.
An episode of Fawlty
Towers
awaiting my return.
It’s a ritual.
A fine ritual.
It’s knowing that my
wife
and my mother are
probably
chuckling about
something
while I light my
cigarette
and inhale and
exhale
and drink my good
dark
German beer.
It’s seeing and
feeling
everything around me
–
the birdfeeder,
the small shed,
the resident garden
gargoyle –
dusted with ethereal
snow.
Edward Anki's poetry has previously appeared in Ballast
Journal, Farewell Transmission, Anti-Heroin Chic, JAKE, BOMBFIRE, Rejection
Letters, Roi Fainéant Press, D.F.L. LIT, and others. His first full-length
poetry collection, Screw Factory, was released in 2022 by Anxiety
Press. A former stand-up comic, bartender, and
agonized telemarketer, he is currently in private practice as a
psychotherapist.
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