dave church



I dreamed I died.

On my way to heaven
an angel flew by
and warned me
not to look back.

I looked back anyway.

Arriving at the door,
God gave me a dirty look
and a second chance –
said if I looked back
next time,
I’d be turned away
and into
a hummingbird.

I was grateful for a second chance –

delighted about my future.


Hopefully Murphy’s Last Hurrah

Murphy’s live-in lover,
surrogate mother
and doormat,
called me with the news.

Having returned from work,
she found him sprawled
on the bathroom floor
the same way they found Elvis.
But unlike the king,
Murphy still like
thread and prayer
hung in there
real tight.

Annie rushed him to the hospital.
Despite his condition,
he still had enough left
to lay into her.
Called her terrible names –
failed Irish mother,
dyke in denial,
castrating bitch
and he wouldn’t shut up.

The doctors thought it best
to keep him there for tests –
indicating his stay could be
a week or three.
They weren’t sure if he was
just drunk,
or suffering from a stroke.
He was slurring his words
and he couldn’t count to two.

I recommended to Annie
that she relax
with valium
or a drink of gin.
She said she would
and we said good-by.

In time short of an hour
I answered a knock at my door.
There she stood like frightened lamb.
We embraced –
both hoping for the same thing. . .


dave church

dave church was born in 1947 and lives in Providence Rhode Island where he drives a cab. He has published eight chapbooks of poetry and Hack Job is his first book of prose.

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