Poems from Earth's Appetite by Margaret Hasse
Truant
Our high school principal wagged his finger
over two manila folders
lying on his desk, labeled with our names––
my boyfriend and me––
called to his office for skipping school
The day before, we ditched Latin and world history
to chase shadows of clouds on a motorcycle.
We roared down rolling asphalt roads
through the Missouri River bottoms
beyond town, our heads emptied
of review tests and future plans.
We stopped on a dirt lane to hear
a meadowlark’s liquid song, smell
heartbreak blossom of wild plum
Beyond leaning fence posts and barbwire,
a tractor drew straight lines across the field
unfurling its cape of blackbirds.
Now forty years after that geography lesson
in spring, I remember the principal’s words.
How right he was in saying:
This will be part of
your permanent record.
© Margaret Hasse
Earth’s Appetite, Nodin Press, 2013
How Does the Dog Spend Her Day?
I used to wonder when I was gone
eight hours at work, but now I know.
Since I lost my job, I find myself
following my dog’s lead: wake late,
clean myself up, eat some crunchy food.
Then she and I go for a long walk
in the neighborhood, taking inventory
of the supply of squirrels,
noting wild rabbits so still
they advertise themselves
as lawn ornaments.
I, too, get my morning
and evening news from the air:
a nearby human smokes a pipe;
rain will arrive on wind
that fells the leaves.
The smell of another dog
on the telephone pole causes
my dog to tremble the way
a ringing phone startles me.
Sleep rules us within the house.
We both drool on our pillows.
I will get over this spell, I think,
I will answer ads, make calls.
But right now, I just whistle.
My dog comes at a trot
to look up at me, adoring
everything about me.
If only she were the head
of a company looking
for someone to hire.
© Margaret Hasse
Earth’s Appetite, Nodin Press, 2013