Patrick Meeds lives in Syracuse, NY and studies writing at the Syracuse YMCA’s Downtown Writer’s Center. He has been previously published in Stone Canoe literary journal, New Ohio Review, Tupelo Quarterly, Atticus Review, Whiskey Island, Guernica, The Pinch and Nine Mile Review, among others. His first book, The Invisible Man’s Tailor, is due out from Nine Mile Press in 2025.
THE BIRDS AND THE BEES
I love how delighted the birds are
with the puddle that forms
at the end of my driveway.
They gather when it rains. They
dip their beaks. They mourn
evaporation. They can’t comprehend
dew point. Their kingdom is the sky.
They certainly aren’t aware
that bad digestion can cause bad dreams.
Like one where my bedroom is full
of bees. But it’s not the bedroom I sleep in
now, it’s the bedroom of my childhood.
And they’re not dreams, they’re sleep movies.
And their sky is not really the sky. It’s farmland
for clouds. A rain machine. A snow factory.
Someone pitchforks hay into a wagon.
Someone jars honey in decorative glass skulls.
Once a month there is a night with no moon.
HOW TO TELL TIME ON THE MOON
I couldn’t live in a place
that didn’t have all four seasons.
Inside of me a snow globe,
a book for pressing leaves,
a paperweight, and my mother
hanging laundry on a line outdoors
all vie for dominance. Learning
to juggle has been my greatest achievement.
It was very clever to give keys teeth
to open the lock’s open mouth. Whoever
thought of that should get a prize.
Might I suggest a gentle shattering
followed by a slow careful reassembling.
Then a painting of the seams with gold powder.
Is this how things become priceless?
In order for something to be considered beautiful
does something else have to be considered ugly?
IF THIS HAD BEEN AN ACTUAL EMERGENCY
You’ve got a baseball cap that says
I’m number one but no coffee mug
that says World’s Greatest Dad. If you
stand still long enough sometimes
people stop noticing you’re even there.
All the while stars, like lighthouses
beam radio waves right through you.
Your pockets are full of little notes
you’ve written to remind yourself to say
please and thank you and to ask how
is your mother since the fall.
It is cold and the wind takes little bites
from your hands as you try to feed it.
Your commute is done by your shadow
recording the passing of time like a sundial.
Reinforcing the illusion of the sun
moving across the sky while all along
you stand still.
SKEPTIC'S LAMENT
There is no such thing as ghosts
and nothing is supernatural.
No angels either. I know
that this is hard for some of you
to hear and I’m sorry, but that shiver
up your spine is just your hypothalamus
reacting to external stimuli. That butterfly
that landed on your knee on the anniversary
of your mother’s death? Just tired and needed
a nice place to rest. The position of the stars
on the day of your birth held no portent.
Fortune cookies are just for fun. Yoga sure.
Acupuncture maybe. Cupping, no.
Again, I’m sorry,
because the psychic never has bad news.
Your loved one is always at peace
and wants you to be happy.
That will be fifty dollars please.
They say Heaven is up and Hell is down
but what if they are left and right?
Consider the possibility that they may be in and out.
More likely they are neither here nor there.
Bigfoot is real, but please,
he just wants to be left alone.
IN PERPETUITY
Good, but this time try screaming
a little louder. Yes, that’s perfect!
But don’t forget to wave your arms
over your head as you fall. Emphasize
the flailing. Really sell it. Great, now
let’s try it again. Oh, stop complaining.
I spread sawdust on the ground
to cushion your landing, didn’t I?
I know, it feels like we have done this
a hundred times already and that it
will never end, but it will. Probably.
Maybe. I don’t know.
Either way this is all there is that’s left to do.
Either way it’s still better than
you deserve.