Wayne F. Burke


a river of cars,
yellow lights coming-in
red lights going-out;
so this is Hollywood
wonder if I’ll get mugged,
dust under my shoes
walking over stars in the sidewalk
back to the motel
and to bed
where I wake 3 A.M.
from a bomb
an earthquake
a car
run head-on into the motel wall below
where shouts and voices
a helicopter above
womp womp womp
a pencil-thin laser beam
of light through the parking lot,
this is not
it is LA
big city of broken dreams
and arms,
the chopper lifts off
into the dark
where stars of the milky way
shine brighter
than any on earth
ever did.



I was 12 years old and
played baseball all that
summer at a field by
the lime kiln where we
gathered in the morning fog
with all the gloves and
bats we owned, but usually only
one ball. Right field was
waist-high with picker-bushes.
Left ran downhill to the Decensi’s
chicken coop. Rocks were bases
and the wire fence backstop was
put-up by Chief’s naunoo “Pete.”
The kiln snorted and smoked,
cleared it’s throat and spat.
Trucks big as garages roared up
and down a road along the right
field line. Games were stalled to
hunt for the ball or argue calls…
We broke for lunch, then for
supper, and played again until
we could not see the ball or
each other.

© Wayne F. Burke

Wayne F. Burke’s poetry has been published in a variety of magazines, online and in print, including previously in Loch Raven Review. His three published poetry collections, published by Bareback Press, are Words That Burn (2013), Dickhead (2015), and Knuckle Sandwiches (2016). He has also published a chapbook, Paddy Wagon (Epic Rites Press, 2016). He lives central Vermont.

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