Two Poems • William Greenway

. . . on fortune’s cap we are not the very button.

How about that Black Death?
Really tapered off, huh?

And only today I was lamenting the loss
of both my feet,
when I saw a man with no shoes.

Two satellites reentered the earth today
but missed my house.

Goddamn it.

Catholics call it a State of Grace,
one I’ve never driven through, though
I’m sure all the Highway Patrolers
are beautiful bears, fuzzy,
with brown button eyes.

But if I ever spin fortune’s wheel,
I’m betting all my bucks
on the black and bad.

And on the righteous red?
Half an egg
from the farm’s sickest chicken.


In the Personals

Aging widower seeks half-pint
woman half his age
for meaningful relationship.
Must be beautiful (long, black
curly hair preferred, olive
skin, Mona Lisa lips),
talented, hilarious.
Must love: cooking
“cheesy-peppery rice,”
writing and reading poems,
running five miles a day
on the treadmill,
singing Aretha Franklin
into the TV remote control,
dancing in the kitchen in XXXL
men’s t-shirts.

No sadness
or sickness need apply.