Two Poems from Bill Roberts

The Gospel Hour

They weren't prostitutes by the strict
definition of the word, they simply
charged the men they entertained, and
who likewise entertained them, a meager fee
for the pleasure they shared, no harm done,
come back again Reverend, but leave me
a little something on my dresser there,
if you enjoyed the ride as much as I did.
After all, I have home, family, bills to pay.

No, they were working ladies, plain and
simple, simply not making enough to make
ends meet, pay all the bills that even simple
life demands, a house of their own and all
it takes to keep it up. And they kept it up
for their men, enjoying life's simple pleasures
as life went on, inexorably, church meetings
every Sunday, the ladies winking at one
another, secrets kept during gospel hour.



There will be no recovery

this round, the noose
tightening on time, not like
the previous chemo
when an apparent miracle
occurred, you rallied,
shook off the look and feel
of stage-IV ovarian C,
the hysterectomy so successful,
so seemingly easy that
you returned home fully elated,
mistakenly thinking --
had not the doctor leveled with
you, your husband? --
you'd been that miracle patient,
you'd beaten it, the
nemesis that doesn't give up,
finds a way back into
your life that now is winding
down, the victor again
triumphant, with villainous pride.

Bill Roberts and his first writing group have just published an anthology of poetry, available from Amazon.com: "la forza di vita: caffeinated poems." He'll soon host his annual "Strong Voices, Strong Women" poetry recitation in the Denver area to benefit Safehouse and abused women. Bill lives noisily with dog-trainer wife and two untrainable dogs in Broomfield, Colorado.

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