by Paul Hostovsky
Someone has left an orange pylon
here. I look around but there’s no
work going on here, only this sign
of work. Maybe it’s a sign that work
needs to go on here. I look for the bump
or the hole. But there’s nothing. Maybe
it fell off a truck on its way to somewhere
else where there’s work. No work here though,
just this orange pylon and the problem
of what it all means. I sit down across from it,
my chin in my hands. It’s looking very
orange. Very official-looking. You could
put it in your life and people would know
to avoid you, to stay away or go
around. You could really get some work done,
dig real deep, take as long as you like,
scratch your crotch and go for a liquid lunch
and not come back for days, years, your work
still waiting for you here, all undisturbed,
this finger holding your place, pointing
to itself pointing to your work pointing up.
Originally posted 2009-02-03 20:35:30.
by Paul Hostovsky
For all his bluster
there was a sweetness
of surrender about him
that rose up like a shrug
when he rested from being right
the way the bulldozers and backhoes
at a construction site at dinnertime
are all finally perfectly still
the tines of their buckets
pointing upward from the ground
Originally posted 2008-11-10 12:45:02.
by Paul Hostovsky
Everybody called him Toby,
though his real name was October,
though nobody knew that except the teacher
who assured him his secret was safe with her
that first day in September, when he came in
early, before any of the other kids
and introduced himself to her,
and told her about his hippie parents
who had named him October
because they loved October
and because they got married in October
and so a year later in October
he was born October. She said
she thought it was a lovely name and a lovely
story. But he said it was an affliction.
He told her how the kids in his old school
called him Ock. Or else they called him Brr.
They made fun of him in cruel ways, like rubbing
their arms and stamping their feet when he passed,
saying: “Brr, it’s cold in here.” They teased him
about June, the bookish girl with the thick glasses,
saying lewd things like: “It feels like October
in June.” It got so bad he had to move away
and start his life over. His hippie father
put in for a transfer. His mother who did macrame
could do macrame anywhere, so they moved
here. And he started anew, with a new name,
a new identity. It was not unlike
the federal witness protection program,
except his parents felt guilty as hell
and were never prosecuted.
September 19, 2009 | in Poetry
by Paul Hostovsky
My best friend Rich Luxembourg
had three older brothers,
Norman, Jack, and Maury.
They all sat in the backseat
of the family station wagon together
like Germany, France, and Belgium
surrounding the little duchy
of Luxembourg, tickling him,
elbowing him, squeezing him until
he laughed and wept with happiness
while I looked on from the passenger seat,
an only child
buckled up next to Mrs. Luxembourg
who was asking after my mother. Dying
of jealousy, and loneliness,
I told Luxembourg one Saturday afternoon
when he said he couldn’t come out to play
because he had to help his brother Norman,
or his brother Jack, or his brother Maury–
“I have no sympathy for you!”
and I slammed down the phone.
Because it didn’t seem fair.
Because here he had three brothers and I
had nothing but a mother.
Not that I didn’t love my mother,
but I think I would have loved her more
if she gave me a brother. “If you give me
Maury, just Maury,
I’ll be your best friend,” I told Luxembourg
after calling him back and apologizing
for having hung up.
“But we’re best friends already,” he said.
“Not anymore,” I said, and hung up again,
and sat back down on the lime couch
in front of our television.
