Joe Dolce: Two Poems

Scatomancy

Divination by excrement,

it goes way back,

Egyptians had dung beetles

to forebode the track.

Séance dans la toilette

might draw quite a queue,

spirit voices in flatulence:

Uncle John, is that you?

Levitating the seat,

with knocks and a spasm,

(but don’t get me started

on ectoplasm).

Add some Tassology,

a discount price tag,

you fast and drink tea,

then eat the tea bag.

The Age might be keen

on a regular forecast,

or, à propos,

a daily aftcast.

My column would be practical,

The Phoenix, 4th page,

after auguring the omen,

you could line the birdcage.

Joe Dolce

Blackman with Dementia

I don’t want to be logical. I can answer all your questions, as long as they are acute, and a bit wayward.

—Charles Blackman

An elderly man stands impossibly close,

face practically touching the canvas.

The signature red beret is tilted.

He stares up into the pigments.

Disturbances in the eyesight,

an unsteady stance and shaky gait,

are Korsakoff Syndrome,

from a lifetime of too much alcohol,

a disease once known as wet brain.

His fellow Antipodeans are dead,

Boyd and Pugh, from heart attack,

Percival, from schizophrenia and stroke.

This last one spends most afternoons sitting,

watching old James Bond films,

but his hearing is going.

The illness has brought confusion, apathy,

an inability to concentrate, and three nurses

providing twenty-four hour care.

Now, television switched off,

the old red-capped 007 stands

motionless           in the gallery,

face practically touching the paintings.

He is again adrift in work,

playing chess with the Hatter,

sipping tea with Alice,

back in the rowboat with the Bunny.

Joe Dolce