George Clooney
Driving west from the beach,
it could have been George Clooney,
head and shoulders draped
backwards over a chaise,
napping and sunning at the pool –
if it weren’t for the bus stop bench
identifying itself as Bus Stop
and the Winn-Dixie cart
full of worldly possessions
sitting along-side –
instead of the coaster glass top table,
the morning bloody-Mary
and the designer umbrella.
George could most certainly
look this content,
snoring, feet up, as though
he had a Golden Globe
and owed himself this decadence,
if it weren’t for the holes
in the muddied boots,
the grease stains on the cargo shorts
and the distinct need for a shave.
It seemed poignant that
the high-end condos just behind George
most assuredly had the same sun,
clouds and blue sky,
as well as the same choreographed
‘v’ of geese flying north overhead
as his siesta stopover.
(This poem was originally published by Gas Blog, June ‘23)
Craig Kirchner is retired and living in Jacksonville. He loves the aesthetics of writing, has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels, and has been nominated three times for a Pushcart. Craig’s writing has been published in Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, The Modern Artist. Fixator Press and dozens and dozens of others. He houses 500 books in his office and about 400 poems on a laptop; these words help keep him straight. Craig can be found on Bluesky.