Scott Waters

Scott Waters lives in Oakland, California with his wife and son.  He graduated with a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University.  Scott has published previously in The Blue Nib, The Pacific Review, Loch Raven Review, Adelaide, Better Than Starbucks, A New Ulster, Selcouth Station, The Courtship of Winds, Scarlet Leaf Review, The Pangolin Review, Ink in Thirds, and many other journals.  Scott’s first chapbook will be published by Selcouth Station, and his poem “I Could Be Anybody” has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.

FILL

 I could seek
 another
 
 click.
 
          like.
 
     thumb.
 
               heart-hugging
                        smiley.
 
 but the hole
 would remain
 unfilled
 
 black as nothing
 
 hungry for everything. 

WHERE IS MY PORK LOIN SANDWICH?

Octopus Literary Salon
 Oaktown
 some years ago
 
 I drag my friend Terry along
 to hear a little poetry
 
 not Terry’s scene
 but he’s a good sport
 
 we find a small table
 wedged between hipsters
 sipping cappuccinos
 
 “Let’s get some food” Terry says
 
 we go up to the counter
 
 Terry orders a mushroom burger
 and I get the pork loin sandwich
 
 “We’ll bring it to you”
 says the bearded young man
 behind the counter
 
 he scribbles on a pad
 rips off a sheet
 and hands it to a young woman
 in a red T shirt
 passing behind him
 
 “Enjoy your evening.”
 
 A few minutes later
 Terry gets his mushroom burger
 
 we listen to a few poets
 and a songwriter or two
 
 Terry says,
 “You should go ask about
 your pork loin sandwich.”
 
 The young woman
 in the red T shirt
 hurries by with a salad plate
 
 “Excuse me, I haven’t gotten
 the pork loin sandwich I ordered.”
 
 She gives me a blank look
 
 “Sorry about that, let me
 check on your order.”
 
 She darts away
 and nearly knocks a coffee cup
 out of a hipster’s hand.
 
 30 minutes later
 my stomach is coiled
 like a snake
 ready to strike
 
 Terry says,
 “Maybe you should write a poem called
 Where is My Pork Loin Sandwich?”
 
 I shove back my chair
 and step on a hipster’s foot
 on my way to the counter
 
 the young woman looks up
 
 “Oh my God, I am so sorry.
 The person who took your order
 quit on me a few minutes ago.
 The dude just started shouting
 and walked out.”
 
 I picture the dude
 sitting beside a dumpster
 in a nearby alley
 
 eating my pork loin sandwich.
 
 I don’t remember if I ever
 got my food
 
 but I remember
 a man reading
 a series of haiku
 
 the faces glowing
 in the lamp light
 
 petals
 
 on a wet, black bough 

RADIO DAYS

 Joe Morgan died recently
 
 I tried to explain to my wife
 
 I got a bit farther with my son
 
 but to really nail the feeling
 I called my Dad to reminisce
 about Morgan's days
 as second baseman
 with The Big Red Machine
 
 Dad's hearing aid
 wasn't up to the conversation
 and I was left
 with no one to tell
 
 about line drives
 chasing pitchers like geese
 off a burial mound
 
 a left arm flapping at the plate
 like the wing
 of a ticklish chicken
 
 cleats digging up green clouds
 of AstroTurf
 between first and second base
 
 and a glove
 that ate ground balls
 for dinner.
 
 Crickets chatter
 in the Indiana dusk
 
 my Dad and I sit
 on lawn chairs
 sipping lemonade
 
 listening
 
 as Little Joe
 steps to the plate 

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