MARIE KAZALIA
Magritte Exhibit

cruised thru pretty fast
too damn many people
ran into a tour group
femme docent loud
in her simple-minded condescension
disguised as education
pass them and keep ahead
out of hearing range

my early childhood days
constantly visiting the
Toledo Museum of Art
roaming hours
amid art in galleries
empty of other human beings
experiences still remain
foremost in my expectations
so I'm always appalled
by those crowds of eager idiots

tourist families in shorts and t-shirts
no style no sense
of design or art
what the fuck are they looking for
here...
the family groups
the young trendy couples
here for the doing
companionship
probably just want to say
they've been
they've seen
the lone
men (mostly)
(except for me
the only woman alone
under my hat)
stroll about arms folded
over chest one hand on chin
gesture of contemplating intellectuals?
and of annoyance
dressed in classic black suit and shiny shoes
despise those about them
those that step back or sideways
bumping into us alone ones -

the groups they occupy a protection
one bad taste woman just stepped back
too enthusiastically
exhibiting her feeling of awkwardness
at being here
the way she looks
not looking behind her
ass in beige slacks
stuck too close to my face
I'm seated on a bench writing -
she too obliging to move
out of some other's way
then a tall guy in short
blue cotton shorts
hairy thin legs
stands too close to my seated eyes
I feel some disgust
to which of course he is oblivious -

so many cameras on straps over shoulders
around necks
some carried by the some-kind of hip-ness
to convince themselves
and others
they too are image (art) makers
the few women well dressed
are always with a man
to tell them what to think
how to act
what to feel
what to do where to go next
at least have enough sense
to avoid eye contact
and sweeping analyzing looks
that linger too long
with surprise in their eyes
more conservative women stare at me
don't understand my style
my reason to be here
see in their eyes
wondering about me
looking and looking
even when I return their gaze
directly into their eyes
semi-startled expectation in there's
waiting for me to tell them
something?
explain myself
provide answers to their questions -
if they want that
they'd have to buy my
book of poetry
and if they actually read
my words
still wouldn't get
what I'm all about -

BARBARA QUANBECK
Rescue Mission

The tractor-trailer lay on its side, buried in snow, belly tickled by the icy waters
of the Gallatin which now held the motionless form within cold clutches.

Quiet now, no longer breathing thick plumes of smoke, its lifeless body
lay in wait, helpless, no longer operational.

You could hear the deep-throated bellow of the Jake as number Fourteen tow truck
rounded the bend and shut down; Kenworth recovery unit.

#2 diesel coursed through the veins of the 335 Cummins that propelled her,
rescuer of grounded over-the-road hard-running rigs.

Five gears in the main, and four auxiliary, her glistening frame trembled with
the fury of turbo-charged prepotency lying in wait.

She was a wide-nosed conventional, with a sleeper for those extra long missions
when man and equipment felt time crawl.

Carrying a 750 Holmes wrecker body, twin-line, twin boom, on a West Coast body,
she was rated for a forty-thousand-pound load capacity.

Men scurried now, ant-like, setting up markers, surveying the scene, making
the determination of where to exert the pressure, attach lines and chains.

After hours of digging, placing cable and hook with knowing hands,
exhaling frosty breath in the crisp, clean air, ready to make their move.

Twin stacks roared as the PTO engaged, Fourteen dancing under the strain,
and, in slow motion, the lifeless rig began to lift, infinitesimally, inch by inch.

Fourteen groaned under the load, her iron cried for deliverance, and as if
in answer to her prayer, the massive leaden body tipped up, settled upright.