Thomas M. McDade


Buttons and Bobbins

A friend now dead I met by chance
At a bus station waiting out a storm
Shared teen trauma I was unaware of
Involving a duffel coat that I recalled
As stadium, thigh high garb, pegs
And leather loops that served
As buttons and holes and since our city
Once bragged of many textile mills
That exited South fleeing unions
Duffle or stadium wood struck me
As weaving bobbins common as beer cans
And used condoms littering the abandoned
Business parking lots, their narrow ends cut
To order to fasten against the cold
At football games for example
My friend’s coat was set on fire
In back of the bus going to Jr. High
By a wrong track side girl
I thought of twisting those
So called buttons and how much torque
They could take and my late friend
In a way concluded with a demo
She’d attacked the arsonist and
Bloodied her face as a striker would
A scab crossing a picket line



The Last of Sean

Before exiting earth via a 20-gauge,
Sean filled the yard of barrel with wine,
chugged it before willing his weapon
to any outlaw who could sober it up.
Tearfully contrite for any facts in his yarns,
he admitted he was just half a bullshitter.
He’d logged brags that verged on grand
but fell to toasting his favorite felons
with muscatel fit for defrocked clergymen.
No tipsy wit or style in his passing,
not one crony’s hair stood on end.
His note lacked flair, allusion, or bile
so his pals spread memorial fibs around.
Sean’s pet diversions were a game of chess
and reading Jim Joyce or Butler Yeats.
A magnum of Champagne
he loved a measure less.
His tales flapped like bats
ripped on overripe figs.



S-L-U-R-P

The catcher on
The Valiant team
Who muttered
A charitable 
“Swing” a couple
Of levels above
A whisper
When he judged
Time right I guess
Felt mighty sorry 
For me and who
With half a heart
Would not have
Except players on
My team cussing 
The able batter
I was subbing for
And my swings at even
The pokiest fastball
A couple of hours 
Late and God how
I hated the lawless sound
Of ball attacking mitt
Doom’s three gun salute
But hell that backstop’s
Five-letter effort
Was embarrassing 
No doubt the ump heard
And tattled so I felt no
Remorse scoring at the grocery
My advisor’s dad owned
A cooler stood out front
Deposit quarter, lift lid
Slide soda bottle of choice
Past the opened barrier
But no need for my two bits
Just darkness, church key
Key, timing and straw required 
To toast myself as
If I’d connected
Slammed a walk 
Off round tripper.



Consolation

“Hopefully it is of some
consolation that
your story made it
to our final round
of submission reviews”
I wore a skinny tie and a
thin belt held my trousers up.
I used to go to a Gimbels,
a Community College now.
I never listened to
The Dead Kennedys.
One trip to Coney Island 
in my resume.
and a single model 
ship demolition:
the German Ship, Graf Spee.
New Yorkers call a talk show
to bash Philly sports fans.
Scuttlebutt is the Navy term 
for water coolers 
as well as rumors.
If you don't use the machine
to validate your train ticket and you
are found out — cough up $150.
Blue Cove paid $15.00 at Gulfstream.
A $40 bet covers the fine
and a fancy dinner date
and all of the above is
part of my doomed story I told 
a woman I met in Central Park
and she accepted and that’s
just some of the consolation.

Thomas M. McDade is a 77-year-old resident of Fredericksburg, VA, formerly CT & RI. He is a graduate of Fairfield University.

McDade is twice a U.S. Navy Veteran serving ashore at the Fleet Anti-Air Warfare Training Center, Dam Neck Virginia Beach, VA, and at sea aboard the USS Mullinnix (DD-944) and USS Miller (DE / FF-1091).

His poetry has most recently appeared in Half Hour to Kill, Emblazoned Soul, and Flying Dodo Review.

 
 

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