By Robert Stanhope

With more frequency,
as the days grow brief,
I'm convinced my mind
has a short or two,
I think my wires are crossed
transmitting my actions,
and my reactions,
to lifelong habits,

"What was I going to do?"
"What was I going to say?"
"Where was I going?"

I try to retrace my steps
as they fade with a blur,
I have a seat and concentrate,
yet I'm lost in vacant thoughts,

"What have I forgotten?"
"What am I repeating?"
"Where am I?"

I bought a journal,
I take notes,
reminders when
​I have a short.

​By Robert Stanhope

​Cities never sleep,
they nap,
one ear and one eye
open to sounds
of an alley cat squabble,
of a city bus's brakes squeal,
of a loudmouth shouting
out his window
on a hot summer night,
as steam rises
from the urban underbelly,
a pressure cooker.

By Robert Stanhope

I mourn today
with a single tear
in my eye,
a memory
of the only moment
you ever said,
​I love you.

By Robert Stanhope
​
​Dogs roam the junkyard
sniffing bones of the relics
rusting into the earth,
tree limbs vine through cracked glass
while a photographer finds light
bouncing off a shiny trim of chrome--
life in a heap of twisted metal.

​By Robert Stanhope

​Black magic
permeates the mind
leaving behind a fog
rolling in heavy
on a desperate soul
lost in a dark cove
of sunken ships,
only the sound
of a horn
will break the curse,
​guide the spirit
to a clear sea
free to sail away
on tranquil waters.

By Robert Stanhope
​
​             It had been a long time since anyone had visited the attic. There was an exterminator that Dad hired from Craigslist to remove a rat and her babies. If memory serves me correctly, his name was “Vermin Vernon”. I’m not sure what odor was worse, his body or the rat’s afterbirth. He wasn’t a clean man, but he was efficient at removing rodents. Plus, he was affordable. Mom offered him fresh meatballs and he accepted, refusing cash for his services. I remember him carrying a closed cardboard box of rats in one hand and a Ziploc bag of meatballs in the other as he walked across the front lawn, his ass crack showing as his pants slipped without a free hand to pull them up.
            Dad passed a couple of years ago and Mom’s mind isn’t too sharp these days. Now it’s my responsibility to rid the attic of a rodent. I’ll see if “Vermin” is still on Craigslist. I’ll search “pest control” under the services section. Only three results. “Got a rat? Let’s Chat!” is the first post. “Have a Rodent Problem? We have a Potent Solution.” is the second result. Do these guys go to poetry school? Ah, this one must be “Vermin Vernon”, “A Man Has to Eat, I’ll Remove Your Critters.” Click. Sure enough, a short description of service and a phone number to call Vernon.
            “Go for Vernon!” said a raspy voice on the line.
            “Hi Vernon, I’m Valerie Moses. I don’t know if you remember me, but you removed some rats from my parent’s attic a few years ago.”
            “Sure do, Ms. Moses. Your Mom makes a mean meatball. Sure am sorry to hear about your Dad passin’.”
            “Thanks, Vernon. We sure do miss him. Mom isn’t cooking these days. The reason I’m calling is because a neighbor saw a raccoon crawling into the attic. We hear him scratching and making a ruckus. Can you remove it for us?”
            “A raccoon, huh?” asked a hesitant sounding Vernon.
            “Yes,” I replied and asked, “Is that beyond your services?”
            “You mentioned your Mom isn’t cooking these days. How are your meatballs?”
            “Vernon, I’d be happy to pay you cash.”
            A disappointed Vernon replied, “I think I’ll refer you to “Rascal Rick” for this one.”
            “I saw his ad on Craiglist. Is he a good man?” I asked.
            “He’ll get the job done and treat ya fair.”
            “Okay. Thank you for the referral, Vernon. I need to tend to my apple pie in the oven now. Take care.”
            “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Did you say apple pie?” exclaimed Vernon.
            “Sure did,” I replied.
            “I’ll be right over to take care of your raccoon problem, Ms. Moses.”