SELECTED POETRY

by
Rob Plath

A NIGHT IN JAIL

They confiscated the contents
of my pockets
I never realized how beautiful
it is to be able to carry things
around on your body
they took my shoes and left
them against the brick wall
just outside of the cell
I sat and stared
at my old brown shoes
the tongues sticking out at me
one of them resting on its side
something van gogh would’ve painted
I wondered what possessed men
to want to be cops
I watched them in the little booth
with their feet up
eating big fat subs
telling dirty jokes
watching the news
I heard the newscaster say
that richard pryor had died that night
one of the cops was talking about
the harley chopper he just bought
he had tattoos on his forearms
he seemed familiar
I got the strange feeling that we were best friends
in another life
later at 4am
he strung us together on the daisy chain
and led us out to the meat wagon
I was cuffed next to a giant named Jamal
whose woman had kicked him in his knee
he was limping
every time he tripped I went with him
we climbed in slowly
the metal bench was freezing
I couldn’t scratch my fucking nose
in fifteen minutes we pulled beneath
the large court building
we walked along the blue tape lines
and were frisked again and then
fifteen of us were thrown into a smelly cage
it was Sunday 4:15am
the judge would be in at 11:30
everybody put their jackets over their heads
and tried to sleep on the hard wooden benches
beneath the florescent lights

© Rob Plath

---

THE BIGGEST ASSHOLE

When I was twelve years-old
I used to imitate
all of my friends’ fathers

their fathers always had something
about them to make fun of

I’d imitate each of their voices
the quirky phrases that each one often used
the way they scolded their children
their moods and salutations when they answered the door
or their conversations when they drove us places
or their comments at the dinner table or a backyard barbeque

I used to imitate the father
of any friend who wasn’t around at the moment
in front of my other friends

that was my rule: behind their backs
so as to not cause hurt feelings

they all praised my skills of imitation and often
requested them

I was the great imitator
I contained the voices and personalities of many

but one day I was walking across the grass
to where my three friends were sitting

they didn’t hear me coming
and they’re backs were turned to me

and I heard an imitation coming
from my friend’s mouth
of what seemed like my father’s voice

it was of him yelling at me
calling me a curse word

then they all laughed

then I heard one say that his father called him
a lot of things
but that he never called him that

then they all laughed again

as I finally reached their small circle
I pretended not to have overheard

they all greeted me
and acted like nothing special was going on

the rest of the evening
we sat and talked about school and girls
and sports

but I couldn’t stop thinking about
that imitation

how my father was the biggest asshole out of
all our fathers

© Rob Plath

---

LEAPING

I remember
playing baseball
during summer vacations

in different backyards
on my block

and the ball always
going over somebody’s fence

back then
we thought nothing
of hopping into
some stranger’s backyard

sometimes it rolled
across someone’s patio
all the way
to the sliding glass door

we couldn’t bother looking in
or noticing our own reflections

we’d just heave the ball back over
go back to our game

if there was a dog
they’d run up and sniff us
wag their tails

we had nothing to hide
then

hitting a homerun
running the makeshift bases

then perched up on the fence
ready to leap down into the
unfamiliar yard

never more careless
were we then

© Rob Plath

---

SALIVA WARS

I remember
the year
that I was
thirteen
all the boys
were obsessed
with spitting
at one another
at school
the most popular
method
at the time was
the index-middle
finger-fling
where you took
saliva on the tips
of your two fingers
and flung
the wet, thin rope
through the air
at your victim
it was a war
that was fought
everywhere:
in crowded halls
in locker rooms
in classrooms
in the cafeteria
on the bus
at the bus stop
young boys
constantly spewing
their insides
on one another
I remember one time
in woodshop
there were five of us
sitting around
Chris had found
an old wooden spoon
and decided to spit
into it
then said,
"Everyone has to spit
into the spoon,
the last one
gets it all
in the face."
We all looked
at one another
then crowded
around him
in a circle
our heads bent
frantically trying
to drop our long
strings of saliva
into the spoon
when Little Kevin
went to spit
he noticed
us all looking
at him
he was the last one
he had started
to run
but Chris
catapulted the spit
at him
all four of us
boys' insides
hitting the back
of the enemy's
skull
and running
down
the back
of his neck

© Rob Plath