Rod Usher: Two Poems

Badajoz Tuesday Market

On flat land between a power station and the Guadiana river

dark-skinned lean men and overweight women shout under

shadecloth to shopping señoras via gold-and-tobacco teeth.

We buy two kilos of picota cherries, honey, aubergines and

—the reason we came this sweltering summer morning—

guata, the stuff you stuff cushions with. My wife holds tight

her handbag, pays for purchases, loads me up like a burro.

I’m on the lookout only for socks, those that barely cover

the feet, stop just above the heel, beneath ankle bone.

One gipsy has a pile of several “brands” jumbled on a cloth.

What a journey, sweatshops in Shanghai to hot Spain.

“Mens Socks” say the wrappers. “Tres por un euro, calidad,

calidad!” chants the man, his voice smoked, cracking.

He looks wary when I burst into laughter.

One of the wrappers says, I swear this, “Mens Cocks”.

I rummage. Only one pack. I translate, “Eso significa pene”.

He shows no surprise. “One euro for three, best quality.”

My wife doesn’t show signs of wanting three more cocks,

even at this terrific price. I buy two packs of mere Socks.

Back home, I’m kicking myself: a Christmas gift for Carlos,

my gay friend. He’d say, a ganga, a chollo, a bargain!

Compensation for letting three cocks slip through my fingers

is picturing an underestimated PRC worker, her naughty smile.

Rod Usher

          Turn, Turn, Turn

True confession: I can’t screw anymore.

For an active man it’s as though a door

has shut; life won’t ever be as before.

My wife says I shouldn’t worry so much,

there are doctors and medicines and such.

“Why is it so hard a subject to touch?”

I went to a surgeon, he shook his head,

asked the hard questions, I didn’t turn red.

“Age brings limitations,” is all he said.

I work in the garden, still pretty fit,

can lift a cement bag, wood I can split,

but no more screwing, it’s tough to admit.

Arthritis the cause, the pain is a shock:

two fingers on my right hand tend to lock.

The screwdriver dead in the toolbox. Fuck!

Rod Usher