Doug Van Hooser
No cream or sugar
The sun lit the sky today. I made coffee, sat in the same chair,
brushed my teeth, put on blue jeans, a t-shirt from some
hundred-mile bike ride. Habits fold me and put me in the drawer.
Only seasons change my shirt. Poems are socks that prevent
the shoes I walk in from blistering my skin. My memoir will
be a fiction of desires, the truth lacks meter and rhyme. Years
a collection of butterflies pinned and mounted. All the things
you net and suffocate when you should just let go. The chase,
bob and weave, the flutter beyond my reach. Attempts to carve
a face in wood I recognize as me. And all those who touch me
like a bird song, forgive nicks and bruises, think my trill
sings in harmony. Still, I whip the line over my head, cast
and reel. Patient on that nibble that is the big one.
Bio
Doug Van Hooser splits his time between suburban Chicago where he uses pseudonyms with baristas, and southern Wisconsin where he enjoys sculling and cycling. His poetry has appeared in numerous publications and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Orison Anthology. He has also published short fiction and had readings of his plays in Chicago. Links to his work can be found at dougvanhooser.com.