Two by Karen R. Porter

The Scattering

You should not
discern my whereabouts
by reading this,
or know that I am
crumbling
in a thousand unseen ways.
Memories like muscles
kinking and unkinking
as I stumble
through the days,
rewriting everything
in disappearing ink.

#

Big Foot

Big Foot lives next door.
Yeah, I know, but it's true.
His clothing helps him blend in -
in this case, nondescript's a compliment -
but his voice gives him away every time.
And those feet, my God!
I don't know where
he buys his shoes. They must cost a fortune.
And you should see
the footprints he leaves out back
after a good snowfall.
It's no wonder the cats don't like him,
run like hell at the mere sight
of his lumbering form.
And since he moved in
snakes are scarce -
guess they're afraid of
getting crushed to death.
Even turtles avoid his place like the plague,
would rather haul themselves
along the far side of the street.
Both dogs bark their fool heads off
although they should be used to him by now
and his late night vocalizations.
No matter how cold it is, he's outside
making that godawful racket.
I remember once sombody
told him to be quiet,
and he yelled that he had nuthin' to hide,
unlike some people!
One time his trash can fell over,
and I saw an entire bag
filled with nothing but
disposable razors.
Day and night
he paces around his property
arms nearly reaching to the ground,
sweating and scratching,
searching himself for parasites.
Once I got his mail by mistake.
There was a postcard addressed to him
from a cousin in Nepal ...