Piotr Florczyk
End of the Line
after Michael Hofmann
A few blocks of two-on-a-lot, sloping an inch
toward the east, as if it were a marvel aqueduct,
not a suburban derelict. Vinal windows, red-
tiled roofs, driveways hated by runners with flat feet.
A Wish You Were Here sticker on a pink car
parked on the south side of the street per city rules.
Downy woodpeckers, with white-speckled wings,
doing their thing up and down a utility pole.
Grubhub, Postmates, Geek Squad, Amazon.
Chalked up police cars, unpainted picket fences,
smoke from a chimney, and rainbow, rainbows.
Tennis balls, two-by-fours, Monopoly, unopened
letters from home. Ditto the crinkly Beach Times.
Taxes and paystubs from three countries, tossed
vodka minis, the sound of a nonagenarian coughing,
coughing. Unattached antennas and dishes
at work. You as the surfer riding the giants
on the wall across the street. Is there anything
more romantic than palm trees painted on the curbs?
Dogshit steaming up the lawn. Some anxiety
at the thought of breathing so close to the MIC
on the eve of war. If you care about what’s next,
follow the mud, or climb that tree
trembling for its life.
On the Anniversary of My Birth
If this poem gets hijacked—
smuggled across the seven seas—
my parents won’t be able
to read it. An English dictionary?
They’ve thumbed one once,
I think. And my wife?
Ah, the things she can do
with her eyebrows instead
of with Polish. Our daughter
is learning the language by
interpreting for her. The sounds
coming out of our mouths
communicate—
as the poet said—
before they’re understood,
but that’s only half the truth.
See, my mother and father,
years ago, signed
on the dotted line, which is why
I am here and they are there.
In a way, it’s a miracle
that my wife and I
continue to be married and that I
am still my parents’ son.
Is that it? Hiding my face
in my hands
I weep for them.
Endless Summer
Green ocean gold hills
your body a walled-up wave
seeking to crash against land
not unlike the fog
invading the dairy farm
nestled high above the waterline
and sharpening
what we cannot see but imagine
to be there despite a lack
of proof things
like cows in a shed a windmill
a copper weathercock
women in bonnets
men in galoshes your wish
to belong among others
stronger than the wish to remember
where you come from
even now while hiking
through this burnt Central Coast
trying to pinpoint where
Nature ends and begins
Piotr Florczyk is an award-winning poet, essayist, and translator. He teaches global literary studies at UW-Seattle and lives with his family in Los Angeles. For more information about him and his work, please visit: www.piotrflorczyk.com