Tuesday poem #623 : Words by David Martin/Image by Innes Cheng : Nothing to Do

 

 

I’m bored, I’m bored, I’m bored.
There’s nothing for me to do.

          “Then read a book or draw,
          or make a craft with glue.”

I’m bored, I’m bored, I’m bored.
And none of those will do.

          “Then ride your bike or skip.
          I’ll play a game with you.”

I’m bored, I’m bored, I’m bored.
And still those will not do.

          “Then call a friend, or paint.
          I’ll build a fort with you.”

I’m bored, I’m bored, I’m bored.
It’s a nightmare that’s come true.

          “Then vacuum the house, or mop,
          or clean a toilet or two.

          Then dust the shelves, and sweep,
          and polish every shoe.

          Then fold the sheets, and cook,
          and pick up doggy doo.”

You know I’d love to help—
I’m just too busy to.

But maybe when I’m bored,
then I can help with you.

 

 

Words by David Martin. Image by Innes Cheng.

 

 

 

Innes Cheng is a visual artist who makes greeting cards, prints, and murals. She was a drummer for the indie-pop band The Fragments, and she divides her time between creating visual art and raising her four-year-old son in Vancouver, British Columbia.

David Martin has published three collections of poems: Tar  Swan (NeWest Press, 2018), Kink Bands (NeWest Press, 2023), and Limited Verse, (University of Calgary Press, 2024). His work was recently selected for Best Canadian Poetry 2025 (Biblioasis).

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

 

Tuesday poem #622 : Ellen Boyette : FASCICLE (56)

 

 

Say cold-- see it’s so-- yearn overload. Change
the cord, dissed. Rouge contented--Bore no spirit
stressor, or mention of a parlor in the tempo Fugue.
To me, few inseams (eight) are mercy’s promise.

Quarrel under, and see crude leeches-- adage the same.
Shall I desire bright fruit? Air a suppresser?
And dent road all my disco? I’ll pry ur pretty pyrite.
Test the spigot-- the palm sobbing more. A mess

Lasts-- so not so. Me v blistered and read I’ve been
cheaper. Far pew dogs lie oh so long-- my vital
aim or my polished ad usage, insidious best.

Adore the quell-- Chill or let my sovereign
chain answer all. Did the letdown party’s
upbeat chime evoke safe nonsense? Neat.

 

 

 

 

Ellen Boyette is a poet and essayist whose work is interested in the occult, the internet, and objects real or imagined. She received her MFA in Poetry from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop in 2019. Her first book of poetry, BEDIEVAL, was a finalist at Slope Editions Books, CSU Press, and Inside the Castle. She is the author of two chapbooks, NITROUS OR MY VELVET KNIFE and CUFFINF SEASON. Her work appears in the Action Books blog, jubilat, The Columbia Review, Denver Quarterly, Prelude, Bennington Review, poets.org, and elsewhere.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday poem #621 : Carlos A. Pittella : TODAY A MAN OFFERED ME GOLD

I was walking back from an overdue vaccine.

Stabbed on my right.

The left is for the mouse with whom I job-hunt.

We click our tiny voices.

We scatter our crumbs in virtual boxtraps.

Both arms sore, slicing rain to get my daughter from school...

That’s when the man in shiny Audi stopped.

Few good things stop in an Audi these days.

This one opened a window:

If you have cash, I’ll pawn you my gold chain.

His hand untucking sparkles:

 

Lost wallet... Need gas... Till Halifax.

I had a five & flagged it to him: Here.

He hesitated as the rich never, offered to escort me to an ATM.

Keep all the gold you want, he said.

Mini bars bounced against his palm.

But what’s the standard size: Snickers? Mars?

Gimme your address, he gentled on:

We’ll pay on the way back, retrieve our borrowed gold.

I said I need no gold.

He didn’t buy it.

My arm still powerlifting $5, my daughter waiting.

He offered me a ride.

I said I like the rain.

He rolled another window to show wife & baby.

I waved hi to the baby the wife propped up as proof.

Hand it to my wife, the man instructed so.

Maybe the bill had always been theirs.

She collected.

The windows shut.

They sped without goodbyes.

Leaving me feeling this could have been God.

Like that joke of the stubborn in the flood.

Who keeps refusing help, saying God shall rescue me.

Then dies & meets his God, who shakes a Michelangelean head:

I sent for you & you & you...

I walked on full of rain.

 

 

 

 

Carlos A. Pittella [photo credit: Steph Leite] is haunted by borders & bureaucracies but tries to haunt them back through poetry, most recently published in the chapbook footnotes after Lorca (above/ground press). Born in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, you may find him among lyric selves in Tiohtià:ke/Montréal & at www.carlosapittella.com.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan