Sample Poems by Joseph Chelius

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Purge

As I lay sick in bed my eyes in a restless orbit
kept turning to the United States presidents
as somber as jurors peering down from the wall--
from Washington to Lyndon Johnson listening
for the doctor to trudge up the stairs
and into the sick room with his gleaming instruments--
cold stethoscope, probing thermometer?
in a worn black kit.

Such authority he exuded full of brusque jokes
and priestly power, scribbling on a tablet,
my mother like a dutiful parishioner
left to abide by those archaic remedies
of enemas and alcohol sponge baths
spoon bitter medicine around the clock.

And next morning in that emptied house
to appear in her pale robe
and once more place a hand on my forehead,
remove the wadded tissues, bring ginger ale.
She'd stack the hi-fi downstairs
with vinyl crackling like fat on a stove?
songs from "The King & I"and "The Scottish Soldier,"
Christmas music out of season,
"The Little Drummer Boy?"s if leading a purge,
cutting through the mist
of the humidifier, Vicks VapoRub,
softening the countenance of Millard Fillmore,
bearded Benjamin Harrison--presidents
in their imperious order,
aloof, preoccupied with national concerns
while my mother tended a boy in bed.

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House Hunting in the Suburbs During the Jetson Years
"Meet George Jetson..."opening theme lyrics from The Jetsons, an animated 1960's sitcom

Meet my father, perturbed, as he taps the brakes
in Saturday traffic--
his worn Thom McAn's inserting commas
before we'd come to a stop.
And my mother beside him with sketchy directions,
the yellow puke bucket rattling on the seat.

Consider the confining capsule
of our Chevy station wagon, aquamarine,
its manual steering and bench seats;
in the warm cross-breeze the six of us
elbow-gouging, arguing over territory,
unsettled by talk at dinner
about venturing from our changing neighborhood--
the row house games of step-ball, sock-it-out?

into these remote regions along West Chester Pike
with its strip malls and fast food restaurants,
the car dealerships with fluttery pennants
to cheer us on as we'd enter Utopias
called Falconcrest, Highspire--
places those shrewd developers,
who knew their business,
might have named for white flight itself.

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Photo of My Father, Senior High Principal, in Sheriff's Hat and Badge

Hard to suppose it had been
his idea. Not my father,
who all through the '70s
kept his hair short
and sideburns trimmed;
who on Saturday mornings--
the old station wagon
like a faithful steed--
rode into town
with his coupons and list.

But above the witty caption
some yearbook staffer
had penned about
sheriff and posse,
rounding up the school's
bad dudes and outlaws,

I was surprised to see him
(beyond a slight unease
around the eyes) bringing off
this insouciant pose: thumbs
hooked in waistband,
white hat tilted back,

and on the adjoining pages
the unlikely posse
of custodians and secretaries,
cafeteria ladies in hairnets,

his deputy the assistant principal--

Weeble-shaped Mr. Fitzpatrick--
feet crossed on the desk.

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Egdorf

We heard his name so often at dinner
it took on the flavor
of some unpalatable food.
Egdorf, my father would snap
while forking up turnips
or spearing meat.
Even the Jane Parker pies
he bought on sale at A&P
turned into Egdorf,
that undermining superintendent,
as we stared at our plates
and tried not to laugh
because the name sounded funny,
and what could we know
of our father's life
as senior high principal,
full to overflowing
with students and faculty,
the new mortgage, six kids?
Fidgety, wanting to be excused,
we left him recounting
for my mother and grandmother?
red-faced, glowering,
the day's dollop of Egdorf
piled on his plate.