Bob Bradshaw

After the Divorce

As soon as my ex arrives he starts grandstanding,
sitting up, holding out his paw…
It’s as if her visit were an audition.

Like my rotary phone
Sonny jumps when he senses Jeanna, my ex, calling–
whimpering like a lunatic till I pick up.

When any woman I’m dating enters the house
Sonny goes straight for her crotch,
nuzzling there as if rooting for truffles.

If she doesn’t leave he starts barking like gunfire.
What woman could tolerate his rudeness?
How many times have I called Jeanna,

begging her for Sonny’s sake
to take him back? “I miss Sonny,” she says,
“but my boyfriend has allergies.

Too bad you couldn’t love me unconditionally
the way Sonny does. . .”
I ignore her but I take pleasure

helping Sonny dig up
her once beloved
lily patch.


Through a friend
I am invited to a mansion in the hills.
I enter a room
the size of a skating rink.
I sit down at the dining table.
Everyone turns their gaze at me.
Did I forget to take off
my butcher’s apron?

A discussion of the best wines
circles the table.
By now I’m reduced to a vow of silence,
like that suit of armor
in the room’s corner.
Topics of capital gains
are passed like plates of caviar.
Someone interrupts, to mention Opera season

and I’m adrift, a balloon
crawling the ceiling
at my son’s
birthday party.

Mercifully dinner ends,
and the matron
walks me out the door,
my cheap suit looking as if
it had survived a tempest.

My friend tells me she asked later,
“Does he sleep in the woods?”

© Bob Bradshaw

Bob Bradshaw is a programmer living in Redwood City, California. He is a big fan of both the Rolling Stones and afternoon naps. Mick may not be gathering moss, but Bob is. Recent and forthcoming work of his can be found at Eclectica, Red River Review, Blue Fifth Review, and Poetry Storehouse.

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1 thought on “Bob Bradshaw”

  1. These two are redolent w pertinance (o yes i am a poet also ). I read the loch raven and comment becuz i have been published there- here r 2 very readable, likeable pomes- i want to tell bob that pomes abt doggees? u cannot lose- submit the first one to the new yorker

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