Stephen Ruffus ~ Three Poems

Home from the Hospital

I have a brand-new spine
built from an Erector Set,
the surgeon’s favorite tool kit.
T10-S1, or S1-T10 depend­ing on
which direc­tion you are look­ing.
I con­va­lesce by watch­ing videos
haunt­ed by the bird­like sound
of whis­tles call­ing out their alarm
over fed­er­al agents bru­tal­iz­ing
ordi­nary peo­ple, and by this
I mean all of us. I was told
that my spine was built from
noth­ing, much like this poem.
That only air was between
the ver­te­brae, some­thing which
seems hard to imag­ine
as though I have been float­ing
through my dai­ly exis­tence.
Still, some­times it feels as if
the space between them
has been filled with my regrets,
so I am cer­tain to remem­ber them,
even in my dreams. Otherwise,
I spend these days look­ing out
the pic­ture win­dow onto
the bare trees and dead grass. And
the spar­rows swarm­ing fran­ti­cal­ly
around the feed­ers low on seed.

1/27/26

~

Winter Convalescing

I’ve not ven­tured out­side once,
let alone in the cold night,
for sev­en weeks since
the day long surgery to straight­en
my spine. So now it’s no longer
the ini­tial for my first name,
a sig­na­ture no one will ever read.
Trying to make myself use­ful
I slip out the door to take the trash
to the curb when Kathy
is on the phone with her sis­ter
most like­ly talk­ing about me.
But the full moon has risen
appear­ing frac­tured through
the spin­dles of a black tree.
Above the stars chime.
It’s the sound the bones
in my neck make, which is still
mine alone, bounc­ing singsong
off the Little Dipper
against met­al screws and rods
shaped like a tulip.
I’m held togeth­er in an embrace.
Yet, indoors threats abound
in the dai­ly news.
They con­spire to enter through
my spine sig­nal­ing that noth­ing
will stave off a com­ing fall,
where­as when look­ing up
at the night sky my bones
feel in har­mo­ny
with the con­stel­la­tions
and no harm can come to me.

~

The Girl on the Subway

On the return from Union Square/14^th Street
we bur­row our way through the tun­nel
the lights go black and white like a movie reel.
I search for a poster depict­ing a poem
tucked in the far cor­ner of the car for there is
lit­tle else on the sub­way to give me plea­sure.
I knew I wouldn’t find a seat.
Too many gid­dy young peo­ple
wrapped up in bou­quets of laugh­ter
adorn­ing the drab sub­way plat­form
rush­ing on to the car wear­ing shiny slacks,
slick ties, and elab­o­rate tat­toos.
Rayon dress­es swish­ing, exu­ber­ant
by their glit­ter­ing night in the square.

Seated are four adults on their phones
pay­ing no atten­tion to the sur­round­ings,
nor to the lit­tle girl stuffed between them.
Her fine black hair is pulled back
illu­mi­nat­ing a star-lit face.
She is clar­i­ty in the murky air.
Eight or nine, petite, wear­ing a pure
white dress, she is perched for­ward,
emerg­ing from with­in her frame, shift­ing
a lit­tle with­in the rhythm of the car.

Having worked to snatch my atten­tion,
her mouth flut­ters like tiny wings
amid the gray rat­tle to offer me her seat,
maybe all along won­der­ing how to ask.
I smile, lean down as though
I was her father and thank her
in what must seem like a breath of air.
As my stop comes into view
I move toward the exit, but not before
I tap my fin­ger on her fore­arm,
small­er than a branch on a young tree.
She looks up sur­prised, and while
not ask­ing her name, I thank her again.
Carried for­ward by the cur­rent,
I step out of the car onto the plat­form
know­ing the lone­li­ness we shared.
And that she had bloomed
inside me mak­ing hum­ble my sorrow.

~

Stephen Ruffus is orig­i­nal­ly from New York and lives in Salt Lake City where he spent his career as a col­lege teacher and admin­is­tra­tor. His work has appeared in numer­ous jour­nals, such as One Art, Third Wednesday, Radar Poetry, and the Northridge Review. His chap­book of poems, In Lieu Of, was pub­lished by Elik Press. He has been a Pushcart nom­i­nee and a final­ist for the Louis Award spon­sored by Concrete Books.