Some Things I've Never Done and Never Will

posted Apr 23, 2013

I've never been to southern France to lie
in the sun, stunned by near nude bodies.

Never stood with them later, nakedness
cloaked in tuxes and swooping necks—sexy

voices betting red as they sip champagne.
Every bet I make I lose. No camera crews

with giant checks, not a few lousy bucks
from a lottery ticket rushed home with bread

and baked beans to find a dime and scratch
for my prize. Never made love in a garden

with unopened mail in the flowers, clothes
that started off in separate drawers now scattered

together to soak up summer rain.
Never belted a fastball into bleachers

or skipped up dugout steps to tip my cap
to guys with beers and kids who shout my name.

Never relaxed beside bodies of water:
zebra always die at river crossings, trapped

in something else's jaws. Tired from migrating
across the plains, weak, the herd watches, drinks,

moves on. I don't know who'd do any more.
It's why I'll never pass a wishing well

without mining my pocket for a coin
to toss, tumble, splash, sit for ages

at the bottom with the others. Shine.

Brian Simoneau's poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Boulevard, Cave Wall, The Collagist, Crab Orchard Review, DIAGRAM, The Georgia Review, North American Review, Salamander, and other journals. His work also appears in Two Weeks: A Digital Anthology of Contemporary Poetry. Originally from Lowell, Massachusetts, he lives in Boston with his wife and their two young daughters.

Simoneau’s poem “Poem with a Guitar” also appears in this issue.