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
