
Different then
By Craig Kirchner
“I was a different person then.”
A line from a movie.
I don’t remember the title, the actor,
the context, I was surfing movie channels,
but it stuck. I’ve been thinking about it a lot.
There is so much, so many realms to explore.
Different how? By what standards, and then,
by decade, starting with teen years,
or categorized by which car I owned.
The man he was in the Chevelle years.
There were stages, phases, transitions,
playing different roles depending on the room,
the job, testosterone. I thought I was best
when I could show I didn’t need approval,
pretend to be unaffected, unconcerned.
Chronologically, characteristically
would require a bio, this wants to be a poem,
the moments I was most different than this,
the most magnanimous of humans scribbling
this ode now, this memorial to a then.
The pen, pad and even the desk and lamp,
think this ridiculous, that I should have watched
the movie instead of getting introspective
and egotistical, that this is something I should be writing
on a cocktail napkin, with a Chivas and water.
I don’t smoke, drink, or do drugs anymore
but I did, often, and it blurred the territory.
I need to guard against the consternation
of my office team - and there it is, guard.
I was a Pinkerton, with a uniform,
a guard house at the entrance to a power plant,
midnight to morning, no one else is part of your life.
The Pinkerton poet was different then, reading
Kafka and Shakespeare out loud to stay awake,
to the smartest mouse in Dundalk.

Belated
By Craig Kirchner
Things go unsaid,
even taken for granted,
more between soulmates than
those unenviably thrown together.
I’m reminded of -
As a Child I Knew
I have never mentioned your beauty,
and yet that is why I write,
to cup the youth of spring-like love,
and childhood days in the park.
I’ve climbed the helpful oak,
as the sun moved from the clouds,
but only found your love,
beyond maturities and doubt.
A self-sustaining afternoon
finds one naked among naked lines.
Once again, I am six years old,
you are proud in your patent shoes.
Which of course, refers
to the first time I saw you
walking up the ramp at Brehm’s Elementary.
I didn’t say anything that memorable day,
I didn’t know how.
Don’t remember the conversation that led us to
drive to the courthouse,
and then to Pennsylvania,
for a completely forgettable honeymoon,
but it seemed fulfilling the obvious.
Fumbling for a belated proposal,
trying to prioritize,
the one thing that should
not remain unsaid about life,
is that without you, I would not have had one.

Craig Kirchner thinks of poetry as hobo art, loves storytelling and the aesthetics of the paper and pen. He has had two poems nominated for the Pushcart, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. After a writing hiatus he was recently published in Decadent Review, Wild Violet, Last Leaves, Literary Heist, Cape Magazine, Chiron Review, Valiant Scribe, Unlikely Stories, Yellow Mama, The Argyle, The Wise Owl, Hamilton Stone Review, The Main Street Rag, and several dozen other journals.