Mather Schneider

SNOWBIRDS
Mather Schneider, September 2009

The brightly plumed couple totters off
American flight two twenty two from Chicago.
They stretch their wings in the warm Arizona air
then climb into my cab
and I take them to their million dollar winter home
in the foothills.
They’re about sixty.
She’s never worked, he retired early
from the family business.
They both sport golf course tans
and whitened teeth.
The woman has eye-watering halitosis
like she’s been eating raw lizards,
the man is a pillow-faced imbecile
with white feathers and hollow bones.
“I was thinking of tea and sandwiches
on Thursday,” the woman says.
“Sounds good,” the man says.
“Maybe a guitarist,” she says.
“Not that last guy,” he says.
“Heavens, no.”
The pioneers tamed the desert
for people like this.
We killed the Indians
for people like this.
I drop them at their golden nest.
A brass coyote sits on their mailbox,
its head thrown to the cast
iron sun.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mather Schneider is a forty year old cab driver in Tucson. He has no college degree and he has won no contests or awards. His poetry has appeared in the small press since 1995, mostly in print, but he has just discovered the world of net zines. He has a book coming out from Interior Noise Press this year.

Promote. Poetry.
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