Born in Detroit, Steven Gulvezan has worked as a journalist and a library director.  He continues to live in the Detroit area with his wife, Karen, and his dog, Yogi.  His book, The Dogs of Paris, is forthcoming from March Street Press.

Three Poems (November 20, 2011. Issue 33.)

Bourgeoisie Blues

The nouveau poor
Come whimpering to my door
Begging for a used Mercedes part

I give them the shaft
A kick in the pants
Spray them with fertilizer

Money doesn't grow on trees
But they say
Yes it does

Mourning their ancestral foliage
Now ravaged by blight
These users delight

In plucking
My finest
American Beauty roses

Until every single bush
Is empty
And forlorn

A gift for oneself
Is a gift alright
Dribbling with spittle

Overcome with delight
Both hands stuck hard
In the money jar

Those years of misuse
All used up
Yes the nouveau poor

Come
Crawling
Into my garden

Begging
For they know not what
Because

They never before
Have needed
Just wanted

And more and more
And more of the same
Not needed

Just wanted
And now they insist
That someone like me

Must shoulder the blame

Retooling The Dream

The dreamers argue the concept
Over fruit juice in the bar

The big man
After consultation with the board
Finally gives his golden okay

The engineers set to work like dogs
Worrying a bone
As they map out on paper
Exactly what must be done

The model-makers construct a mock-up
It looks so very good in wood

And in a year or two or three
The prototype is ready to roll

But then the anatomized dummies
Stuffed with illusions
Explode when this dream
Crashes into the wall

And the whole damned world stops
And spins backwards to the dreamers
Dreaming a future
From some high tower

Gazing down and pondering
Their eyeballs hard pressed
Against a clouded window

While the river away down below
Continues bucking and rolling
Always violently to the sea

Friday Night At The VFW Hall

"And that's a good bingo."

Willie gets excited.

"Ma, they're cheating – that old lady
And the caller got the fix in."

"Willie," Mother says, eyes pleading,
"Please…just let me finish these cards."

His hawk blue eyes burning,
Willie strokes his graying beard.

"I didn't fight the war for this," Willie
Says, touching his VFW cap.

"Did you take your medication?" Willie's
Mother whispers.

"Screw the medication!"

And then the caller:
"And that's a good bingo."

Again the same old hen wins.

"Ma," Willie is screaming,
"I smell fish! I smell fish!"

Willie's weary old mother
Downcast eyes to her lap

Wonders when
If ever

She will feel comfortable
With leaving Willie home alone.

While the big winner
Perhaps misunderstanding

Rises on ancient legs and
Points a shaking finger

Vaguely in the direction
Of the kitchen

Or possibly
To the wall

Where a memorial plaque
Commemorates

The fallen heroes
Of Willie's war.

"Young man!"
The wizened old woman's

Plaintive shrill
Jerks Willie's head

To attention,
"Your fish was fried right there!"