Gerry LaFemina: Some Things Just Can’t Be Explained

Bigfoot hunters point out a patch of pressed grass, 

tamped down, full-bodied, declare it a nest.

This is what sasquatch does, leaves

behind only a remnant of itself, some imprint,

a clue. The rest is speculation, the way

the Phantom Grammarian could have been anyone—

those corrections left in books, pages dog-eared

through the library stacks I shelved.

Her handiwork always in blue fine-point,

handwriting impeccable. Whether crypto-zoological,

ecclesiastical, or commonplace, mysteries abound:

I never learned who it was, just as I couldn’t say

where those empty Funyun bags & beer bottles

came from in the park I walk past, homebound.

Some one—I can’t remember who—developed

a system for rating chips & pretzels. 

Funyuns didn’t make the list. Ditto pork rinds,

though thousands must eat both everyday.

I had a lover once who loved those snacks

that left her fingers red with dust, how

she stained my skin that color some days

when she touched me the right way, & who

was susceptible to sudden & inexplicable fits

of depression until one day she left & left

for good, leaving only an impression on her pillow,

an empty pill container, & a short note

which told me, politely, to fuck myself

in her sloppy handwriting, her exacting syntax.

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Copyright 2022 Gerry LaFemina

Gerry LaFemina believes poetry is the highest art form; believes everyone should rock out with a guitar at least once–even if they can’t play; believes teaching is a calling; believes the New York City subways are beautiful (even if they smell bad); believes in love, bigfoot and other mythic creatures; believes in the power of a good meal, a good night’s sleep, good whiskey, and good friends; believes in top-down driving and fast music; believes laughter is a type of prayer….