Three Poems

Sew Buttons

Below the carafe is a bellowing giraffe. 
A kaleidoscope serape. 
Video game cart races around galactic rainbows. 
Miniature street corners chock full of amorous glances,
visible only by jeweler’s loupe—Lilliputians in a cherry red sports coupe.
Armature for the recently decreased.

I was a citizen of that metropolis. Living like an abbr. of an abbreviation, 
barely life-like. 
All my friends were proven winners. But I always parked my surfboard on the wrong side 
of the curb, beyond the hiccuping meter. 
In case of sudden trench-mouth, I used two mis-matched tourniquets. 
I wore my galoshes in a worrisome manner, too matter-of-factly. 

If as ever means very often, I’ll be right there.
One of the schmucks who does that a lot; that or this, sorta-kinda. 
Oh that? That’s just the laundry banging around
upstairs at midnight thirty. 
I was classified as a deer spy. Smoking sweet Joe-Pye weed with a frumpy lexicographer. 
Armed with an oyster knife. One nickel short of a famous lobster latte. 

Who’s the chief mermaid around here? 
The Top Chef voted Best Dressed in Optional Clothing. 
Appropriate balance between paying your bills and partying in the hills. 
Lonely minor leaguer patiently awaiting their phone call from above. 
There was certified silence. Signed and sealed. 
Heavy coat of fog seal smothering the road. 
You could hear a pin drop on the surface of a snowflake
falling at terminal velocity toward the handsome shoulders
of an amateur meteorologist. 

I wasn’t late; I was just past early. 
And who’s to say there’s a due date anyway? 
Mind if I go galloping into the sunset?
On a quest to request answers to all my stupid questions.  
For example: Is it what such might it could be? Should be?
So what? Buttons.

Russian Novel

What I remember about the book
is Ivan clutching his chest,
and whimpering at the hem of his mother’s bathrobe.

There are long afternoons, dreary with winter slush,
when Ivan just can’t take it anymore,
dips into a pub, and binges on some kind of liquor milk.

Ivan sees a man beat a horse to death.
“Oh well,” he thinks,
and chalks it up to a teachable moment.

Stone cold babes holler from bridge crossings.
A couch—no! A love seat. And one meager blanket.

More liquor milk, and then Ivan’s cousin-in-law gets greedy.
A window breaks.
The city’s river is icy black with significant emotions.
Here, cue the noose.

Ivan sleeps for a long time. He wakes up and it’s a holiday.
“Hooray,” the school children yell.

Truth of the Matter

If you leave for work, I will be at home. You are not home, therefore I am here. 
If you leave for work and I am here, I will be at home. 
But if you leave for work and I leave for work and we are not here, we will not be at home. 
We both leave for work.

If it rains, I will drive you to work. My aunt’s name is Jane. 
It rains; I drive you to work. My Aunt Jane is not named Albert. 

If I drive you to work, it will be raining. If I drive you to work, it will rain. 
My Aunt Jane is not Albert of Saxony. 

What is implied by a true proposition is true. 
A horseshoe is a tool. Horses require horseshoes. Horses don’t require slippers. 
A horseshoe is a tool, but a slipper is not a tool. 
I wear slippers when I am home. I don’t wear horseshoes. If I am home, I don’t wear horseshoes.

Jane calls on the phone. You are at work. Jane tells me about Albert of Saxony. 
If it rains, Albert will go to battle. If it rains intensely, Albert will battle intensely. 
Albert of Saxony battles in the rain. 

∩

Will Stanier is a poet and printer living in Richmond, Virginia. He is the author of the chapbook, Everything Happens Next (Blue Arrangements, 2021). His poems have recently appeared in Annulet, The Baffler, The Brooklyn Rail, mercury firs, and RECLINER. He works as a librarian.