Frank Corso: ‘My First Girlfriend’, ‘I Dropped God Off at the Station’ and ‘The Judge’

My First Girlfriend

I was nineteen in 1979.
I wore long hair, Levi jeans and platform heels.
Equipped with new licence and Probationary plate
The rite arrived to buy my own wheels.

It falls on a young man to make the first move,
A nervous excitement on the first date.
Raised on ramps, pride of the catwalk fleet,
Under her bonnet flirted lusty V8.

I did not hesitate—she was my true love.
Her engine purr was steady and sweet.
Glistening in the dry, sparkling in the wet.
I curled up at night with my garaged pet.

My virginity fumbled on the back seat,
We travelled fast; her suspension was low.
Later, I met my wife. She changed my life.
She had to go … my flashy Torana, for old man Volvo!

Frank Corso


I Dropped God Off at the Station

I dropped God off at the station
with a fare for his destination.
Because of a cancellation
we returned to my accommodation.
He calls it a celebration
and takes it as an invitation
to put in my imagination
the seeds of his manifestation.
I said I don’t believe his explanation,
I’d rather he’d go on vacation
than worry about my salvation.
And so, it is with frustration
I’m stuck with his conversation
while the devil in me seeks compensation!

Frank Corso


The Judge

In the holding cell, prisoner paces in a cage.
I have been accused of speaking in soft sentences.
Rounded up again, tossed in the back of a van,
routine going to court deflates the policeman.

It is my learned choice to sit on the bench,
to wear a wig and robe like a magician.
I ignore false prophets of the media scrum
who adjudicate with an emperor’s thumb.

The courtroom is an emergency ward of sufferers.
I weigh up the diagnosis and consider a cure.
A white rabbit from a hat, extracting facts,
the time has come to perform miracle acts.

Punishment for crime is high and hard to resist,
but a chance to reform balances the ledger.
Justice is blindfolded and easy to outwit
dissecting vocabulary, making it fit.

Defence and Prosecution are scavenging crows
taking care not to stain their reputations.
As in the dock, in casual chat can wrap
a witness caught in a steel-minded trap.

Allegations are punches hurled like boxers.
With wisdom of Solomon I score the evidence.
When on the ropes, all try tipping the scales
from the corner pimp to the Prince of Wales.

Jury spins the outcome like roulette wheel.
The verdict is a painful remedy.
Adversaries are outraged, it’s the last straw.
I exit from a separate trap door.

Frank Corso


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