J.P. Celia


Big City Lullaby

Easy, my egg, my unfried egg.
It’s only
the hobos browsing.
Their sole objective is to beg
enough to get warm housing.

Easy, my yolk, my yummy yolk.
It’s only
a fire engine.
The hooligans like to have a smoke
to therapize their tension.

Easy, my bird, my baby bird.
It’s only
the distant screaming
of schizophrenics that you heard.
They do not know they’re dreaming.

Easy, my chick, my darling chick.
There aren’t—
I promise—goblins.
It’s only the junkies getting sick.
They rob, but not us robins.

Lines for a Dead Dog

He’s buried yonder, past the garden shed.
He knew as many as two dozen tricks,
The most impressive being “playing dead.”
He plays it still, but with a crucifix.

J.P. Celia‘s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in such places as Rattle, Barrow Street, First Things, Tar River Poetry, Think Journal, and The Raintown Review. He lives in Gainesville, Florida.