Two Poems

When I Am Old

Lord, what trick will you have
up your sleeve? A Job routine:
one bad thing after another.
The painful fade out.
What if I co-operate and let
my hair go gray, let go
of all remaining expectations:

will this get on your good side?
I want my departure fast,
just like my grandfather's.
You remember him, an old man
alone in the back of the bus
watching out the window, alive
with thoughts of his next gin game.

Old Apple Eaters

They peel red apples,
quarter them as they read in bed.
Every night, she buys
tomorrow’s newspapers
at the neighborhood stand.
Pages rustle, bifocals slide.
Apple essence and rank odors
in their closed bedroom
before they turn out the light.

He calls out in his sleep,
"Stop, get away from here."
"Black apples, black apples…"
She listens to these ravings.
A serpent slides across stone.

Melanie Maier was born and raised in San Francisco. She earned a BS from the University of California, Berkeley, a teacher’s credential from San Francisco State University, and a JD from University of California, Hastings College of the Law. Her poems have been published in journals and anthologies. Her books include sticking to earth and The Art of the Everyday.

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