I have merely to gaze at my fading
features in the low light of the mirror
to witness the return of my father,
each day coming back more surely -
the clouded eyes, flaring nostrils,
parched lips damp at corners, lazy
man's stubble, knotted throat apple
bobbing through trebled chins -
a sight I was certain I'd never see again,
but here he is, back once more to follow
my slow progress of transformation
to becoming what I'd feared, him.
I could turn up the lights, perhaps
rediscover me, but too many years
have passed and my inclination is to follow
his lead, begin dimming them instead.
MY DREAM LOVER
My dream lover snuggles in beside me,
holding me for warmth.
I begin to stroke her cool back,
work my hand over a buttock,
cool and smooth,
then up her back again
to her slender neck,
then, fascinating, back and forth
over her smooth, hairless head.
She nuzzles that head against
my neck, embarrassed.
I work down her back again,
down lower, examine tenderly
the hairless, damp crevice
between her cool thighs.
My dream lover has finished
four chemo treatments,
comes to me tonight
before starting the next four.
The drugs poison unseen enemies,
eradicate all body hair,
lower body temperature,
but don't choke off desire.
ON BECOMING A WRITER
I was quite young when
I first saw a naked woman
And decided then and there
Not to become a painter.
Had the woman been young
And beautiful and less
Rather than more, I might have become
A talented, maybe even a great artist.
As it happened, I became
A writer, modest but fulfilled
Who dreams of naked women -
Lean, beautiful, there only for me.
Bill Roberts lives in bucolic Broomfield, Colorado with an
energized wife and two spoiled dogs. Formerly, he was a nuclear
weapons expert who transmogrified into someone who wants to
eliminate all guns and WMD.
His poems have appeared in over a hundred small-press journals,
including Bellowing Ark, Long Story Short, Main Street Rag,
Rattle, Slow Trains, and Waterways, to name a few.