Heather Candels
Stained
My Contractor knelt
in a forest of possible colors
and opened five cans of stain,
clear walnut, golden oak, puritan pine, driftwood.
He stirred.
This is cherry, he said
and pried off the lid,
Kind of scarlet.
He stirred some more.
Scarlet, I said
Paint an A on my floor.
What? he said
and stirred some more,
dipping a rag into each color.
Later, he laid the floor,
stained it, sealed it, and left
it for the footprints of others
its grain more pronounced
with each crossing.
Listen to Me
Listen to me he once said,
his car sexy red
accelerating boot
burning the pedal,
ripping up the street
conducting a symphony of gravelly dust
screeching to a stop at my house.
Mistaking this crudeness for charm
I jumped into the passenger seat
bent toward him wide open
heard him full blast, top down.
Listen to me read my poem, I say
as he chops celery into hard bites,
pretending to hear me
while he’s elsewhere in the soup.
My poem once hard and strong
on the page, now scattered
words dispersed in mouthfuls.
By the handful, he tosses tough bits
of celery, now broken,
into the boil. Green yellows to gray,
limp in the pot of dead roots.
A Call for Change
The Pink Flamingo ladies smeared with peach lipstick
drive up in their Mercedes and pleated wool skirts,
pearly chained reading glasses dangling around their necks,
hair arranged by Jason at the town salon.
They carry boxes of brochures asking for
spare change for Unicef and gather hundreds
of children in the school auditorium before lunch,
tens and twenties stuffed into their pockets,
mouths full of expensive braces, feet shod in pricy sneakers.
When the lights go down, the film with heart-
tugging music starts. Flies land
on African babies and rawboned cows
lying in parched deserts waiting for someone to
silence the buzzing pestilence.
We’re not asking for any big sacrifice here,
just your pocket change.
No one will miss a quarter or two.
Sally stands in the cafeteria line feeling
smug when she stuffs a dollar bill
into the jar, looking around
to make sure all have noticed.
After ice cream, others follow dropping
in dimes and quarters and handfuls of pennies -
each chink swatting away
those pesky twinges of guilt.
World Gym
The pasty faced boy at the desk stares into his game
of computer solitaire, his red hair and acne
under investigation by fluorescent light,
scans your passport to the World Gym
so you can suit up in Spandex and hop on
the bicycle to nowhere.
Which is actually supposed to be Italy
because Vincenzo, the manager from Rome,
has arranged bistro chairs and tables where no one ever
goes, against a backdrop of dry fountains
and dusty plastic ivy strangling
hollow Corinthian columns.
Mustard paint-slathered walls grope for
hill-town enchantment with factory distressed tiles
feigning centuries of footsteps, but Christmas green carpet
and flimsy toilet stalls with broken latches steal
the illusion of Tuscany drowned out by the music oozing
from speakers about sex and betrayal and desperation.
Vincenzo holds the keys to the Amalfi coast
a particle board paradise
where bronze wrinkles cost extra when you
climb into a coffin of ultra-violet sun
and close the lids of
your eyes and try to imagine pink and white
cottages, terrace grapes, lemon vines, and lavender bushes.
Outside, the rotten city walks by - flicking cigarette
butts, tossing coffee cups while inside tight shorts
and baggy sweats pace the treadmills, stab their remotes below
ten television screens dangling from rubbery tentacles
all blaring different stations begging them
to buy and believe.
You clutch the machine, press the arrows
grow the hills higher and speed the roads faster -
red numbers blink mileage and calories burned -
congratulating you at the end of your tour
even though you’ve not once moved
from your spot on the floor.
My Contractor knelt
in a forest of possible colors
and opened five cans of stain,
clear walnut, golden oak, puritan pine, driftwood.
He stirred.
This is cherry, he said
and pried off the lid,
Kind of scarlet.
He stirred some more.
Scarlet, I said
Paint an A on my floor.
What? he said
and stirred some more,
dipping a rag into each color.
Later, he laid the floor,
stained it, sealed it, and left
it for the footprints of others
its grain more pronounced
with each crossing.
Listen to Me
Listen to me he once said,
his car sexy red
accelerating boot
burning the pedal,
ripping up the street
conducting a symphony of gravelly dust
screeching to a stop at my house.
Mistaking this crudeness for charm
I jumped into the passenger seat
bent toward him wide open
heard him full blast, top down.
Listen to me read my poem, I say
as he chops celery into hard bites,
pretending to hear me
while he’s elsewhere in the soup.
My poem once hard and strong
on the page, now scattered
words dispersed in mouthfuls.
By the handful, he tosses tough bits
of celery, now broken,
into the boil. Green yellows to gray,
limp in the pot of dead roots.
A Call for Change
The Pink Flamingo ladies smeared with peach lipstick
drive up in their Mercedes and pleated wool skirts,
pearly chained reading glasses dangling around their necks,
hair arranged by Jason at the town salon.
They carry boxes of brochures asking for
spare change for Unicef and gather hundreds
of children in the school auditorium before lunch,
tens and twenties stuffed into their pockets,
mouths full of expensive braces, feet shod in pricy sneakers.
When the lights go down, the film with heart-
tugging music starts. Flies land
on African babies and rawboned cows
lying in parched deserts waiting for someone to
silence the buzzing pestilence.
We’re not asking for any big sacrifice here,
just your pocket change.
No one will miss a quarter or two.
Sally stands in the cafeteria line feeling
smug when she stuffs a dollar bill
into the jar, looking around
to make sure all have noticed.
After ice cream, others follow dropping
in dimes and quarters and handfuls of pennies -
each chink swatting away
those pesky twinges of guilt.
World Gym
The pasty faced boy at the desk stares into his game
of computer solitaire, his red hair and acne
under investigation by fluorescent light,
scans your passport to the World Gym
so you can suit up in Spandex and hop on
the bicycle to nowhere.
Which is actually supposed to be Italy
because Vincenzo, the manager from Rome,
has arranged bistro chairs and tables where no one ever
goes, against a backdrop of dry fountains
and dusty plastic ivy strangling
hollow Corinthian columns.
Mustard paint-slathered walls grope for
hill-town enchantment with factory distressed tiles
feigning centuries of footsteps, but Christmas green carpet
and flimsy toilet stalls with broken latches steal
the illusion of Tuscany drowned out by the music oozing
from speakers about sex and betrayal and desperation.
Vincenzo holds the keys to the Amalfi coast
a particle board paradise
where bronze wrinkles cost extra when you
climb into a coffin of ultra-violet sun
and close the lids of
your eyes and try to imagine pink and white
cottages, terrace grapes, lemon vines, and lavender bushes.
Outside, the rotten city walks by - flicking cigarette
butts, tossing coffee cups while inside tight shorts
and baggy sweats pace the treadmills, stab their remotes below
ten television screens dangling from rubbery tentacles
all blaring different stations begging them
to buy and believe.
You clutch the machine, press the arrows
grow the hills higher and speed the roads faster -
red numbers blink mileage and calories burned -
congratulating you at the end of your tour
even though you’ve not once moved
from your spot on the floor.
Heather Candels is currently a
student in Purchase, New
York, at Manhattanville
College's writing program.
She has recently been
published in Roux Magazine.
During her regular life, she is
an English teacher and helps
plan poetry events for teens
in her community.
student in Purchase, New
York, at Manhattanville
College's writing program.
She has recently been
published in Roux Magazine.
During her regular life, she is
an English teacher and helps
plan poetry events for teens
in her community.