Poems by John Stupp

Angels

Angels

are strangers

bumping into you

a poet wrote—

I read it in Poetry

so it must be true

if so

the odds are good

as a city commuter

I will encounter

angels

more frequently

than a farmer

in Nebraska

or a cowgirl

in Montana—

so there are

at least as many

barbed wire posts

and skinned wolves

howling

on the 16A

this morning

when the sunrise

crashes through

feet first—

while the Ohio River

is taking off her

nightshirt and panties

and folding them

one by one

by the trees to dry

This Morning

On the way to work

a possum crossed

in front of me

he was moving pretty quick

for a possum

I almost didn’t see him

I was thinking

the winter before

I took one

across the river

in a trap and let him out

in a truck junkyard

on Neville Island

everything was included

truck cabs

old tires

all the rust

he could eat

and a river view

then snow started falling

white as cigarette paper

in January’s ass—

when I opened

the trap he ran

into a pile of leaves

like it was a wedding gift from a stranger

John Stupp has lived and worked in the Pittsburgh area for 35 years as a jazz musician, waiter and paralegal.