Sample Poems by Peter Serchuk

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Cowboys in the Modern Age

They're mostly vegans now, non- smokers,
nobody's fool once the cemetery in Marlboro Country
became the biggest home on the range. Those huge
cattle drives too are yesterday's news, no more men
in chaps ushering thundering herds across the plains.
In their place, wranglers now pilot drones from control
rooms miles away, move the Angus and Brahmans
from field to field with the flick of a wrist.
To the herd it's all the same, grunts and gas,
even the smartest oblivious to the pre-recorded
crooning of Git along, little doggies.
No matter, after a long day behind a joystick,
cowboys are still ready for a good laugh, a cold beer
and a little George Jones. Then it's off to the gym
for spin class and pilates. Just what every cowpoke
needs to keep his two-step razor sharp out where
the buffalo roam.

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Conversing with My Shirts

The shirts in my closet complain
they're too tired for work, yet constantly
this urging toward the next mirage.
In their pockets I find the lint of previous
seasons, old ambitions masquerading
as hunger and thirst. I explain that a mirage
is a fever that conjures the past as the future,
that confuses the blindness of what was with
the blindness of what could be. Unconvinced,
each morning the shirts rattle on their hangers;
mistaking starch for resilience, wrinkles for
wisdom and a light switch for a burning bush.

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The Man Who Cuts My Hair

The man who cuts my hair has heard it all:
from high and low, the best and worst,
from every perch up and down the ladder.
So each month, for an hour, I hear about the lives
of other men: tales of brokers, actors, lawyers
and accountants. I'd be lying if I said I didn't listen.
Scissors snapping in my ears like castanets, I learn about
the one who struck it rich then bought a curvy, younger wife.
The one who rigged the books and now reads inside a cell.
The one who lived to eat until an artery blew a fuse.
Still, as he cuts and trims, shaves and clips, I can't help
but wonder what tales he tells of me when others take my place.
Some lucky fool with the Midas touch? Or maybe a would- be
hipster too eager to embrace an earring and tattoo.
The list could go on and on, the possibilities endless.
My head now spinning in a dream, I see them all, wearing
my clothes, imposters crowding the mirror. Then I'm back
in the room, eyebrows being trimmed, watching the man
who cuts my hair clean my neck and lower my chair.
You look like a million bucks, he says.
I stand and pay his fee, tip him an extra twenty.
He slaps my back and shakes my hand, as if he knows me.

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Inside a Church Not of Your Own Faith

A kind face welcomes you at the door
but the tortured souls on the stained glass
have their doubts. They have a hunch your
savior's in your billfold, that you spend your
nights marking cards, trash-talking the moon.
Still, forgiveness may be in the air,
the way clarity can tap your shoulder when
you least expect it, pointing to a door that
only yesterday looked like a wall.
Don't blow your chance now by asking
for miracles, by asking the man holding
the collection plate if he can make change.
Take what is given with a quiet tongue,
with the humility of a naked branch granted
another season. There may be a thousand
souls you can save just by unclenching
your fist. No one has to know the life you've
lived, the bodies thrown from cliffs, how just
this morning you prayed in front of the mirror,
your eyes wide open.