Pamís big toe, having lost its nail to a softball off the bat of Mindy Carr
like a wad of Juicy Fruit gum.
Like a naked turtle,
a bad polaroid,
a lost civilization.
Like the cue chalk in your beer
at the Half Moon on a Sunday night.
Like a catís headstone,
a Gremlin convertible,
a sideshow midget circa 1935.
like the hole in the screen at the Community Theater.
Like the head of Jack Nicholson after the lobotomy.
Like the head of Sister Mary Michael.
Like the head of Peteís penis looking old as they all
Like Billy Carter,
a drunk cop,
the í62 Metsí minor league farm system,
Christ on the cross,
your grandmother under the hospital gown.
Toe of Pam,
like the thump of your umbrella
opening in the closet.
the Batphone off the hook,
a botched punchline,
Like a cracked ping-pong ball in play
at Columbia County Community College.
Like the word globule.
Pamela Lillian Coleís big, bald, uglyassed, truly
like a lima bean in space.
Like Charles Mansonís last thought
before he falls asleep tonight.
Not like spring,
not like love,
like what it is.
A toe with no nail.
A nail-less toe.
Peteís farewell to Hudson before leaving for the greener pastures of Schenectady
Hudson you old whore
I smoked your dope
but never got between your legs
State Troopers shut them
six years before I was born
Couldnít even get a game of whiffleball
Called you up Saturday, youíd go back to sleep
Rang your doorbells and waited
waited my whole life
Now look at you
Nonfat frozen yogurt
Historic home tours??
I want a beer
Come on, Hudson
Drink with me
I mowed your lawns
Carried your groceries
Painted your bridge
Untangled your kites
Buried your pets and
your two best men: my father
and his father who told me
everything about you
That the Half Moon
was named after Henry Hudsonís ship
but that Henry was never here!
That whalers came from Nantucket
afraid the Brits would take back the colonies
That you were named after the river
That you took sperm from whales
and any guy whoíd walk down Diamond Street
You were Sperm Capital Of The World
and I missed you by less than a generation
You didnít wait for me
I ainít waiting for you
If my old blue Schwinn is still outside
the Half Moon in 20 minutes
stop by and Iíll buy you a Genny
Otherwise see you next Christmas
Henry Hudson wasnít here
but Pete Reutter was
Steve Price grew up in Hudson, NY, a town known
historically for whaling and prostitution. His stories
have appeared in The Madison Review, The Crescent
Review, and has one forthcoming in Urbanus. He has a
screenplay under option by Clarence Square Pictures in
Toronto, and is currently at work on a novel and a
collection of poems.