Roxanne Hoffman runs Poets Wear Prada with Jack Cooper. Her words can be found in cyberspace (The Performance Poetry Preservation Project, Pedestal Magazine, New Verse News); set to music (David Morneau’s Love Songs); on the silver screen (2005 indie flick Love and the Vampire); in print (The Bandana Republic: A Literary Anthology by Gang Members and Their Affiliates, Soft Skull Press; It All Changed in an Instant: More Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous & Obscure, HarpetCollins). Her elegiac poem “In Loving Memory,” illustrated by Edward Odwitt, was released as a chapbook in 2011; their second collaboration, The Little Entomologist, 2018.
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| Roxanne Hoffman |
Bitch Boy
Let’s get this show on the road,
hit the ignition switch, boy,
accelerate the date, mate, push the pedal on the gas.
Get your ass in gear, boy, cause we’re getting hitched!
Swear on your eyes, don’t flinch, boy.
Let’s clinch the deal with a kiss
-and-tell before the judge,
hang out the undies soiled before the hoi polloi!
Steady on the curves, don’t pop a nerve, boy,
I see that eyebrow twitch.
Trust your impulse,
La Dolce Vita ain’t no far-fetched
stretch of the imagination,
cross my heart and hope to die.
A stitch in time saves nine lives,
but we ain’t no pussy footed adult-essence virgins,
and the meter’s running, the eggs are ticking,
time’s a wasting, and so are we!
I promise, if you take this leap of faith,
you won’t wind up crashed-and-burned in some ditch!
So, let’s bring it home, sweet homeboy!
We’ve run over all the bases and tag you’re it.
No need to get down on bended knee
for La Grande Plie. Forget the Bolshoi!
I need no highfalutin’ sales pitch.
Just glide on over here. Kick up your heels for joy.
Don’t mind the lipstick smear, the mussed-up hair,
rubbing up against all the elbows and the knees.
LOVE knows not the nose snot, the drool drip,
only wet kisses, and tender sips when we squeeze.
It’s just the way we’re engineered!
Let’s get gussied up and queer, boy.
Hurry up and guzzle down that beer,
eat up your pork fried rice,
gobble down your bok choy,
‘cause this here fling’s the real McCoy,
and once we get home, we’re stripping down to the gears!
Your momma told me of an insulin dependent grandson,
of pinning back your great Dumbo ears.
You told me of your punch-drunk
mad hatter pater’s two-fisted bad temper,
and of your failed attempts at multiple careers.
And still, I hold you dear.
Okay, so you’re no jock but still strapping
in your white tees and skin-tight jeans,
and jocular with you-dare-to-mock-me wit,
like Alfred E, a grin from ear-to-ear,
So, you’ve pinned this no-paging Betty Crocker tomboy,
but I’m no donkey’s ass!
And this poem here’s no crock of shit.
Despite a minor glitch or two, in-and-out of love,
we’re still a perfect fit.
With you in hand, I’ll always be coordinated
and fashionably accessorized,
even knocked up upon the pedestal, and besides,
I know how to work the VCR,
can kick-ass start the motorcar,
and where to scratch your itch.
So, you be my yum-yum boy toy
and I’ll be your bad-girl bitch.
Don’t make me hurt you now!
They say “If you get the milk for free,
you won’t buy the cow.”
But who cares what the hoi polloi says, anyhow,
‘cause the judge is waiting, and we’re getting hitched!
The Family Pet
Meet Nikita White,daughter of Nat and Loretta White,
an almost completely snow white
homogeneous grizzle,
except for a charcoal band across her tail,
the black tip of her pink beak,
her two pink feet
and the occasional beauty mark.
She is also graced with jet-black bullseyes.
a pigeon with a penchant
for black sunflower seeds
and dry-roasted soybeans,
and did I mention,
head rubs and lavender-scented
birdbaths.
in a chimney,
swiftly set her sights
upon my better half,
training him to feed her,
by hand, at the window.
left her flightless,
and at the mercy of
the neighbor’s tomcat,
we took her in,
only to be turned in-
to full-time waitstaff.
of a pint-size creature,
under nine-inches tall
and weighing hardly more than an ounce,
who each glorious morning feels
compelled to announce
the marvel of the sun’s arrival.
You know that Early Bird Gets the Worm theory.
So, up we get wearily, bleary-eyed and yawning
to fix breakfast for the bird, as the day is still dawning,
wondering just how something this absurd
could have possibly occurred.
a pigeon who takes great pleasure
in resting her tush
upon a plump and overstuffed
silk-brocade cushion,
embellished with marabou feathers.
commandeering her wingless dominions
with the constant clucking ’n’ cooing of opinions
and strategically placed deposits of fertilizer
hidden among the Herati of the Persian carpet,
waiting to be squished
under the naked feet of those that defy her.
The Family Pet,
Mother Hen, Ruler of the Roost.
STOLEN MOMENTS
I watch you
From our window,
Your back to me,
Seated on the stoop steps,
Hunched over a cigarette,
Absorbed in thoughts
As you draw me in,
Releasing rings of smoke
That rise and dissipate
In the wind.
A plastic sack of groceries
Rustles noiselessly
At your side,
Until you feel my eyes
Gently pressing your back,
Softly calling you.
You turn around to wink at me,
Flick away your cigarette,
Lifting your sack
With one hand,
Acknowledging its time,
To come back
In to me.
After Shakespeare’s Sonnet No. 115
As if our love is an endurance test
or would by time deteriorate to less
and I’ve replied —in jest — “fear of dating.”
And though it’s true, I do guard my interest
for having found in you what I obsess
after what seems years of endless waiting…
And would find myself quite hard-pressed
were I to lose this prize I now possess,
even with the rush of conquest now abating…
It is not so much fear, as fearlessness,
and more that for each battle we contest,
in this witless war known as “relating,”
We learn to more readily acquiesce,
elating in each battle scar caressed.
