Robin Wright – Five Poems



I awaken to the sound
of my granddaughter
telling Grandpa
she has seven dollars,
stretching syllables like clay.
She knows I work nights,
this six-year-old girl, and asks
Grandpa when I’m getting up.

Usually, I’m out of bed
at the sound of her feet
tapping wood floors,
ready to read to her,
play a game of Go Fish with her,
or take her for ice cream.

But this evening, as night waltzes
toward us, I want to linger in bed,
listening to the sweet song of her voice.

Do We Have a Clue?

I buy a retro game of Clue
and a return to summer evenings
spent accusing Professor Plum,
Miss Scarlet, others.

Clue, sunset to a day of bike rides
around the neighborhood, never
a real Ms. Scarlet in a slinky red dress,
wielding a revolver. Never
a Professor setting aside his pipe
to hang his wife in the study.

My husband and I explain the rules
to our granddaughter. She asks for paper,
jots notes, comes close to winning
the first time she plays. Her concentration
like that of a concert pianist set to mimic
Mozart in the ballroom.

After Granddaughter leaves, I pick up
the candlestick, wrench, revolver, rope,
glance at notes she took, her large script
angled across the page like a confession.
The murder happened
in the Billie Yard Room.

Delivery Men

The white truck slows then stops.
Men exit dressed in coveralls
and sock hats. Wisps of breath
guide them up the walk.

I open the door and the older
of the two dips his head
and apologizes for tardiness.
I shiver as the younger one
props open my front door.
The lift on back of the truck
grinds and moans as it lowers
its load to the road.

The men take over, wrap belts
around themselves and the appliance.
The older sings instructions
as they lift and turn, waltz
through the room
then slow, change direction,
shimmy belts down,
swing doors open, glide them
around the corner, slide belts back up,
two-stepping the box through the doorway,
then ease to stillness as the fridge hums.

Trains in the Night

A low moan whispers through night’s shaded room.
Faded walls, yellowed pages pay homage

to age. For years Sara’s nighttime howl,
harmony for the train’s refrain. Papery skin,

tulle of hair, now gone. Tracks spin her
memorial for miles, roses tossed along rails.

The train’s requiem slow, sorrowful;
a low moan cries through the bruised night.


Look, there,
laundry on a clothesline.
The weeping wash
dropping tears on the earth,
wanting the sun
to dry
to heal
to be
its savior.


Author’s Statement on Beauty

It’s easy for me to look at my granddaughter and see beauty that I’m compelled to write about, not just how she looks but things she says and the person she is becoming. This kind of beauty is great inspiration for my poetry, but it is not surprising. What surprises me is when I find beauty in unusual places like the grace of two delivery men, the lonely sound of a train whistle, or the thought of laundry on a clothesline having human emotions. As a poet, I feel I must always be open to what the world will offer, so that I may respond with words I hope will encompass the beauty in front of me.


Robin Wright lives in Southern Indiana with her husband in a home their cat graciously shares with them. Her work has appeared in Unbroken Journal, (b)OINK zine, Rat’s Ass Review, and others. She has also co-written two novels with Maryanne Burkhard under the name B. W. Wrighthard, Ghost Orchid and A Needle and a Haystack.