July 2014 Sestinas
Peter Bergquist earned a BA in English from Princeton University and an MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University Los Angeles. His poems have been published in Rougarou, The Queen City Review, The New Verse News, A Handful of Dust and The Broad River Review among others. His poems “Gristle on the Bone,” “The Easy Winter” and “Pulled Over Outside Santa Fe” were finalists for the latter journal’s Rash Awards.
Without lemon, this tuna salad is a bore.
The sun I’d thought to tan in is too hot.
Tap or bottled, water tastes of nothing.
Is there no movie that I haven’t seen?
Perhaps a nap to pass the afternoon.
Can I stand another frozen dinner?
If I could cook, I’d ask someone to dinner.
We’d stare across our dishes, bore to bore.
How many minutes has it been since noon?
I’d better have a drink while I’m still hot.
I’ll check the guide to see what I have seen.
Watching something generally beats nothing.
I could attempt to meditate on nothing;
there’s time to sit half-lotused before dinner.
Wait, there’s a film noir I haven’t seen,
though someone that I know said it’s a bore.
Who cares? That Rita Hayworth is so hot.
Which is closer, six o’clock or noon?
I’m hoping six o’clock, not noon.
I’d bet on it, go double or nothing.
If I played poker, could I be red hot?
I just might find a casino after dinner.
But blackjack by yourself becomes a bore.
Plus my luck’s the worst I’ve ever seen.
Will it ever change? Remains to be seen.
I’m not sure I can endure another noon.
I’ve always said complaining is a bore.
I’ve claimed I’m not afraid of nothing.
Just think, to never face another dinner
and never have to worry if it’s hot.
Strange to have no sense of cold or hot
and leave behind sensation of the seen.
But eyes can often fool you at a dinner.
You pay for it far past the next day’s noon,
or find anticipation comes to nothing.
Whether good or bad, a meal’s a bore.
It seems to me my thinking’s not so hot.
It’s time to tell my shrink I should be seen;
but if I call now, I’ll interrupt her dinner.