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Robert Cooperman

    Robert Cooperman

    Robert Cooperman is the author of many collections of poetry, most recently, City Hat Frame Factory.  In the Colorado Gold Fever Mountains won the Colorado Book Award for Poetry.

    Poems

    At the Denver Botanical Gardens

    Beth and I have come early
    to view the on-loan Calders:
    whimsical bolted metal shapes
    reminiscent of Picasso’s flute playing
    goat-men and opulently endowed women,
    though these are more abstract,
    giant mobiles floating above babies’ cribs.

    It’s a treasure hunt to find the pieces,
    both of us racing to point, “Aha!”
    when we spot a black or blue or rust-
    colored mobile and stabile: a word,
    we read in the pamphlet, that means
    the pieces don’t move in the wind.

    Nothing seems to be moving this calm
    spring morning, except Beth and me
    as we stroll the grounds, admiring the artwork
    and the plants beautiful as sculptings,
    especially the hardy, prickly ones
    that had to adapt to a harsh, dry climate,
    like our favorites, the Spanish Bayonets:
    cellulose swords that home-owners plant
    under their otherwise easily burgled
    first-floor windows, the tips sharp
    as D’Artagnan’s or Zorro’s sabers.

    But here, they’re works of, if not art,
    then natural selection’s whittling
    and honing, to create the perfect shape
    for the perfect weapon.

    Copyright 2018 Robert Cooperman

    First published in Slant magazine

    Stopping by Woods on Guanella Pass, Above Georgetown, Colorado

    We drove from Denver for the changing leaves—
    the aspens turning gold and pumpkin-wild—
    and stopped to take photos among the trees.

    And since the drive had been long, we relieved
    ourselves off the trail; then we saw the sign
    among the vividly dying autumn leaves:

    “Attention!   Mountain lions have been seen
    in this area.”  And is that a pile
    of steaming scat beneath the lovely trees?

    We did our business fast as rain off eaves.
    and didn’t dare linger even a while
    among the gorgeous, flaming, golden leaves,

    but convinced ourselves something big was breath-​
    ing, scenting meat all down our freezing spines,
    stalking us in the blazing autumn trees.

    Secure in our car, we looked back, reprieved,
    almost hoping to see a shadow climb
    down, tawny in the gorgeous, golden leaves,
    a predator’s easy gait among the trees.

    Copyright 2018 Robert Cooperman

    First published in Loch Raven Review

    On the Corner

    “Iraq War Vets, anything helps,”
    his sign reads; she sits, leaning
    against a pole, their belongings
    in knapsacks in front of her.

    He wears a smile ill-fitting
    as a thrift shop jacket;
    her head droops in dejection,
    her cigarette ash growing longer.

    They look like weary travelers
    in a strange city: no place to stay
    except maybe a park tonight,
    or a downtown shelter.

    Beth rolls down her window—
    heat a traffic cop’s raised palm—
    and hands him a bill; he blesses her.

    Beth sighs, and I think that guy
    could be me, though I never served;
    Beth rolls up her window,
    the air-conditioning scouring us.

    In our rearview mirror, he holds
    their sign like a cue card;
    her knees are jackknifed
    into her chest, her exhaustion
    in pitiless America immense
    as the Rockies west of Denver.

    Copyright 2018 Robert Cooperman

    First published in Exit 13 Magazine

    Warning at the Bank

    by Robert Cooperman

    The sign at our local bank warned
    no one would be allowed in
    wearing shades and a baseball cap:
    apparently, bank robbers’ preferred attire.

    One guy pulled off a series of heists
    in a single day, maybe trying for the world,
    or at least the state, record, or his habit
    so desperate, his hauls barely kept pace
    with the drugs he shot, snorted, or smoked.

    But the last time I needed money,
    I noticed, no sign: maybe the manager
    complacent after a year of boring business
    without interruptions, or maybe no one
    paid attention, so the manager gave up.

    The tellers are all women, and though
    they may be undercover agents packing
    more concealed heat than Old West gamblers
    with hideout guns, and more expert
    at martial arts than Bruce Lee, I fear
    for them in their lovely friendliness,

    always asking about my weekend plans,
    showing off engagement rings,
    or flirting with me, their safe uncle.

    They’re trained to hand over the money
    and keep smiling, though guns have gone off
    from the trigger fingers of nervous men
    who never thought they’d be reduced
    to doing this to get by.

    Copyright 2018 Robert Cooperman

    Taking Beth to the Denver Nuggets Game Against
    the World Champion Golden State Warriors

    Over breakfast at our favorite greasy spoon
    the next morning, Beth informs me I missed the action,
    by paying too much attention to Steph Curry
    sinking treys like dropping sugar cubes into coffee,

    and dribbling through the Nuggets defense
    with the speed of a husky with a bowlful of Purina.
    The real game, Beth leans closer, to make sure
    the scandal doesn’t leak out, was when the wife

    and small daughter of the guy in front of us
    went to the restroom, and his wife’s friend
    moved next to him, the woman, according to Beth,
    gorgeous, her skin like hot caramel, and abundant

    under the halter top she wore in this fall cold snap,
    her stylus-sculpted fingers caressing his face,
    tattooed, rope-hard arms, and belly, then a quick kiss
    from pillow-lips, before she returned to her own seat,

    the guy staring as if Adam’s last glimpse of Eden.
    “See what you missed,” Beth taunts now, as I slice
    into my French toast, and swish it through syrup.
    “Besides, the Nuggets lost again, not even close.”

    Copyright 2018 Robert Cooperman

    First published in Waterways

    Rock Climbers at Garden of the Gods, Colorado

    “I love work,” the old joke goes,
    can watch guys do it for hours.”

    No joke, I love to watch rock climbers,
    their slow, steady patience of ibexes
    that would drive most guys nuts,
    who jones on the speed of basketball,
    soccer, football, or hockey.

    It’s the climbers’ competence,
    the challenge of figuring out
    where to secure a piton,
    what fissure to grab hold of,
    where to plant their climbing shoes,
    or like that world-class Frenchwoman,
    ascending barefoot, her toes more agile
    than the hands of great tennis players.

    Then there was the time Beth and I
    were walking in The Garden of the Gods,
    once a Ute holy place, now a state park,
    its sandstone formations irresistible
    as Swiss chocolate to rock climbers.

    While our necks were craned—hungry
    as owlets for the regurgitated meat—
    one climber fell, his rope bracing him,
    thank goodness, and not the splattered mess
    below that we feared, turned away from,
    while other observers screamed,
    and someone ran for a park ranger,

    before the climber spidered back
    to the wall and signaled, to cheers,
    he was ready to continue, though Beth and I
    had had enough for one day. 

    Copyright 2018 Robert Cooperman

    First published in Aethlon magazine

    The Kid with the Camera

    Crossing the street
    with his elementary school class
    after a visit to the Botanical Gardens,
    he snaps at everything with the confidence
    of a smart, loved child: the street signs,
    the parking garage tunnel, and me,
    waiting for the light to change.

    It hits me like a giant salami
    in a vaudeville slapstick routine,
    this could be the opening scene
    of a mystery: the kid taking a photo
    of something, someone that should’ve remained,
    for the sake of his health, invisible.

    The bad guys track him down, rip the film
    from the camera, or smash it to pieces,
    and if the kid protests, I don’t even want
    to think what they’ll do to him.

    But maybe if they take him prisoner,
    the diminutive genius will make their lives hell. 
    Or if it isn’t played for laughs, something
    terrible will be done to him, unless the cops 
    or an intrepid rescuer frees him
    and wreaks terrible vengeance.

    All this flies through my head
    while the kid snaps me again and smiles
    that knowing smile that asserts
    the world belongs to him; and it does.

    Me?  I’m almost finished with the space
    and oxygen he’ll need for the rest
    of his wonderful life, until—and he doesn’t
    know this yet—it’s his turn.

    Copyright 2018 Robert Cooperman

    First published in Plainsongs magazine

    Mobbing the Hawk

    “Mobbing,” it’s called, when crows
    attack a raptor in a tree or in flight.

    They scream off-key, as only crows can,
    to chase off the predator: blood memory

    strong as carrion scent, to recall their young
    or mates taken, bones clattering down. 

    In the park this glorious Sunday morning,
    I spot a red-tail hawk in a tree, trying

    to make itself invisible from the murder
    of crows that would love to kill this beauty,

    its feathers marbled like opulent Renaissance
    tables treaties were signed on.  But no peace

    treaty will be offered this morning,
    between raptor and outraged crows

    that keep up their racket until the great bird 
    flaps its wings once and flies across the lake,

    crows giving chase, screaming, shrieking,
    making sure it won’t return, as much as we,

    earthbound humans, would love to see it
    snatch and silence an obstreperous crow,

    not nearly as lovely as this hawk;
    thus, in our murderous-aesthete eyes,

    undeserving of our worship.

    Copyright 2018 Robert Cooperman

    First published in US. 1 Worksheets magazine

    “Learn English Here”
    Sign outside the Coram Deo Reform Church--Denver

    “Learn English here,” the sign encourages,
    in all good will: Denver a city lyrical
    with Spanish, Vietnamese, a splattering—
    as if a brief spring sun shower—of French
    at one croissant bakery, on Saturdays,
    a smattering of Russian, Hebrew, Arabic.

    Still, English is necessary: to ask directions,
    to read cereal boxes, street signs, addresses,
    to fill out forms, and to avoid the thousand
    little mousetraps in this all-American city.

    But the sign’s in English, and presumes
    a non-native speaker will understand,
    and therefore not even need the lessons,

    though in this case, “English” could mean,
    “Only English spoken here,” “Or Speak
    English or Go Home,” if one assumes—
    and why not, without the proper words
    to deny the assertion—that whoever hung
    the sign bears no love for foreigners,
    and assumes all of them are illegal aliens.

    How hard would it have been to print,
    “Aprenda Ingles Aqui”? since someone
    in the church is going to teach English,
    and someone who wants to learn
    our most irregular tongue will thus
    know to walk inside, eager to sign up.

    Copyright 2018 Robert Cooperman

    First published in The Chiron Review

    Tailgating

    The driver of the torpedo-sleek
    sports car behind me has clamped down
    on my rear fender so tight
    I can see rage bristling his face
    like a wounded boar: not caring
    I’m five miles over the speed limit. 

    He’s waving a fist, punching the horn
    like a cattle prod: a semi blocks his path,
    or he’d have passed me blocks ago.

    When I turn into the parking lot
    of a department store, he follows, still
    so close he could suck fumes from my tailpipe,
    and, I hope, asphyxiate behind the wheel.

    But instead of the raging, muscle-crazed
    steroid tiger I expected to have to run from,
    he’s metamorphosed into an old man,
    arms stringy as deflated birthday balloons.

    “Why can’t you move your ass, damnit!”
    he rasps, and I fear he’ll swing so hard
    the wind from his haymaker will knock
    him down, and he’ll stroke out on the asphalt.

    The young impatient?  It’s their grandfathers:
    so many places to go, things still to see,
    and so very, very little time. 

    Copyright 2018 Robert Cooperman

    First published in South Carolina Review