By Kevin Rabas

Fingernail Clip #2

Running late,
playing brushes tonight,
and loading big metal
cymbal and snare stands in,
tricky on the fingers,
so I’m in the parking lot
standing, quickly clipping my nails,
so the finger clippings don’t stick
to my black slacks;
break a nail, and with every brush circle
you could catch or snag,
so like the killer in Fargo,
you stop everything
and clip, mid-kidnapping.

Glasses Found, Mailed

comes. You have found
my glasses in your couch.
I remember the long blur drive—
lights, lines.

Snare Drum (Stick) Solo

Juries, and my snare drum stick slips and rolls the length of the black music stand and upends and spins, end over end, and clatters to the chamber orchestra floor, and I know I’ll be docked points for that, however well I play.

[The cat does not wait for me to write]

The cat
does not wait
for me to write,
but pushes her snout
against my hand, pen.
What she wants is love,
not words, letters pressed
to paper.

kevin rabas

About the Author:

Kevin Rabas teaches at Emporia State University, where he leads the poetry and playwriting tracks. He has seven books, including Lisa’s Flying Electric Piano, a Kansas Notable Book and Nelson Poetry Book Award winner.