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Best Poems Written by Amy Sell

Below are the all-time best Amy Sell poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Amy Sell Poem

The Phone Number In the Big Book

I think it’s funny when in the thrift store I see
An Alcoholics Anonymous handbook donated to charity
With the former owner’s full name on the front, page sides, and spine
And even a return address label on the front page inside,

So much for anonymity!

I smile and think, “How cute!” 
But I guess if you were in a room where everyone has the same book as you do
You have to label yours clearly to avoid it getting confused
With those of others who have highlighted different passages than you. 

So as I take donations at the thrift store door I think, “Here’s another one!” 
And if this one has an address label, too, I may just for kicks and giggles send the former owner a postcard saying, “Thank you for the donation . . . 
How are you?  Still on the wagon?” 

So I peer inside 
Let’s see . . .  
Hey wait – that name - and phone number- is mine!!  

After thinking on it, it’s possible that I donated it a couple years ago
And someone bought it, even with my name on it, then they, too, let it go. 
For better or worse those memories we throw out always resurface
Hopefully in time to help us realize we are all far from perfect.

Details | Amy Sell Poem

On a sunny morning in September 1984
My mom’s best friend Linda drove to the grocery store
With her four-year-old daughter Becky in tow
Listening to the radio, Becky amused herself in the back seat, looking out the window,
And it crossed Linda’s mind that Becky’s safety belt was perhaps not fastened
For Becky’s father was overly relaxed about making her wear it, but Linda wouldn’t have it.
So she looked back to check it
And in that one second
She drove under an industrial truck that had suddenly stopped in her path,
And neither of them came back.

I think of this story sometimes as I drive to the store; it reminds me to never look down nor back
But I sometimes wished I’d learned it myself instead, even if I as the one under a sheet by the road that nobody can see what’s beneath it, but they know.

Today I was thinking of this but was momentarily distracted when I heard the radio play this song: “Sittin’ in the morning sun; I’ll be sittin’ when the evening comes . . .”
“I like that song,” I thought, and I started singing along,
When the National Public Radio broadcast interrupted to inform me
That Otis Redding died in a plane crash two days after recording this
At the age of twenty-six

So I turned it off
and thought,
“Thanks, NPR, for ruining another thing for me!
Couldn’t you have another broadcast about transgender bears in Finland whose misery won’t impact me so immediately?” Geez!

How do you tell a four-year-old her friend is dead?
I don’t recall what was said, but I knew right then that my end, too, could be soon.
How do you tell a four-year-old her friend is dead?
I would make no friends for many years ahead.
I knew it when my mom picked up the phone
In her response the message was known.
I was partially deaf from an untreated ear infection
And this was the first thing I heard with clear perfection.

When I got to the store I was making that face people tell me not to make
Lest it freeze that way.
But I don’t care.
Sometimes I wish I had a sign tacked on my back saying, “Do not disturb! Be aware!
I’m already as disturbed as I can stand!
And further disturbance is grounds for attack!”

But I probably don’t need it,
Although I keep distant and never make eye contact, they can see it
Sometimes the strongest messages are indirect
Like a sheet by the road, a message unsaid
No need to say it
We all know the answer is posted on no sign nor in the paper
But for what it’s worth I’ll say if you see me
Please do not disturb – I’m too disturbed already!

Details | Amy Sell Poem

A Tale of Two Drive-Throughs

“Goooood morning!  I’m Wade, and I’m having a fantastic morning here at Starbucks! What can I get started for you today?” 
I look over at the Starbucks drive-through lane from the Goodwill donation drop-off lane next door where I’m working in my usual hurried pace, 
and I see no less than thirty cars in line to give Wade’s surely smiling face 
yet another order.  

I’ve never seen those who work at the Starbucks drive-through, although so close are we 
that their menu I can see. 
While I clearly hear the smiles, the pickup window is around a corner, perpendicular to me, 
so the attendants’ faces remain invisible from my position.  All in particular I see 
is a speaker and a long line of cars, all idling with keys in the ignition, 
waiting for a turn to order coffee and another trip begin.  

Despite all the work awaiting another day’s run, the speaker always sounds so full of great cheer, 
and I often wonder how it is done, especially in the early morning as I pull my weight here 
to bring into this thrift store next door old furniture and loads of damp discards left in a pile 
dumped in this drive-through overnight to be sorted and maybe once again placed for a while.

My morning routine as I look over all these rejected things left here, seeing nothing but their heavy weight, damage, and defects, 
is eased just a little as I smile in response to the cheerful speaker next door; it seems so blessedly oblivious 
to the line of cars extending out into the road and increasingly impatient.

And at the end of the day sometimes I’ve even heard voices in the speaker joking and singing as I’m bringing the last of it all inside to lock up for the night. I think, “How dead tired am I, 
How are the voices in the speaker still chirping as lively as birds at the break of daylight?”  
I can’t keep from thinking it can’t possibly be; it doesn’t seem right.  

Is it youthful optimism behind this impenetrable happiness and unwaveringly positive attitude?
Or is it brainwashing to blame for this refusal to respond in kind to those in cars getting impatient and rude? 

So one day I made a mission to go into the coffee shop and see the faces of those voices that I hear through the uniformly cheerful speaker. 
And as I suspected, they mostly looked as tired as me, albeit younger - not particularly joyous, but not forlorn or tearful, either.  

I said to a counter attendant, “I work in the donation drive-through next door, and not to sound creepy, 
but your voices through the drive-through speaker are a real pick-me-up in my morning routine.  
Surely you know how much work is ahead, yet you never sound tired nor discouraged, 
and I wish to express my appreciation for it.”

In return, the counter attendant replied, 
“We know who you are because, although the window is around the corner, perpendicular to the drive-through line, 
invisible to you,
our speaker has a camera facing the line, and your drive-through is in its view.

Although we cannot hear you, we see you, and you never seem to tire as you push unwieldy furniture from 1981 to a new place today; 
You lift as light feathers each trunk-full after trunk-full of trash bags relentlessly dropped as dead weights, as though you simply do not feel all the work dumped your way!” 

And after getting my drink I left with more questions than when I arrived, 
Thinking about hearing the sounds in the speakers, and about how happy the speakers probably aren’t in their own eyes
and about how in their camera they can only see how strong 
I probably am not.   

For if they could hear my cussing and mumbled profanities on a day-to-day basis, they’d surely see I’m rather weak, 
And if I could see their faces as they speak, I’d surely hear they, too, have days of weather bleak. 

But as we go about, I suppose we lift each other in our own ways and positions, some with our actions and some with our voices, 
and I can only hope the drive-through attendants next door may sometimes be as joyous 
as they make believe they are in the speaker, while I pray that I may sometimes be 
as strong as through my neighbor’s silent camera my shoulders often seem.

Details | Amy Sell Poem

When I Was Your Age

For Christmas I got half a glass of Coke; nothing else was given.
If I wanted something else I could spill it and get a spanking in addition. 
My parents washed my underwear for my birthday 
That’s all I got, and I liked it that way!
My slip-n-slide was a roll of trash bags and a hose
There were cinder blocks to hold the rolled out bags down at the end of slip row.
So we had to slide carefully and roll off fast.
We put shampoo and soap on it so it would double as our weekly bath.
My four sisters and I had one pair of boots to share,
And if I was lucky I got a boot to wear.
My bike had no pedals, no handlebars, and no seat, 
But it had two wheels I could push uphill both ways through the snow, at least.
We had only four channels, and when the President spoke he monopolized all four.
And I only wish I was your age once more.

Details | Amy Sell Poem

The Upside-Down Umbrellas

My dad made large upside-down umbrellas which I’m told
Won't keep the water above us from hitting us as we walk the road
But will hold the dirt and dust that's left of us as we corrode
Keeping it from falling and being washed away in the river below.  

Impenetrable and round canvases of black
They go in a hole underground with a rod attached
The rods have rocks serving as bases that suspend them above ground, in their place
And braces to keep the underground canvases open-face

As useless as they are in the rain today
We maintain the upside-down umbrellas and we quietly pray
They will keep us all dry one day.

Details | Amy Sell Poem

Magic Sunglasses

I have sunglasses that let you see
Only the things that you want to see!
"You're mistaken," you say, 
"They're just regular shades!"
And I say, "That's my point precisely!"

Details | Amy Sell Poem

Good Black Friday

My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?
Can’t you hear me as I bleed?  
Please return my glance; please answer back – 
Why is Black Friday good
And Good Friday black?
Can’t anyone answer for the pain;
Can’t anyone explain the Sunday morning rain running down the tortured terrain of the hidden faces in forbidden places, 
On runaway one-way trains racing fates they can’t face,
Living the past confessions of the masked men around them, 
And breathing breaths kept in by the rest who walk past these cracked windows and deny their reflection?
Dying in the deep shade of the tree they plea,
My God My God, why have you forsaken me? 
But nobody cares
Because it’s just a dying plea,
Not a real prayer.

Details | Amy Sell Poem

Tree of Life

It reached as high to the sky as its roots dug to the hardcore 
I sought its refuge from rain during a dark storm
And its shelter from the blinding white light of the sun
It died but always came back the next season

I knew it had an axe in its core 
Someone left it there, and it grew around the handle and head
So nobody could see it anymore
I wanted to remove it because the space it rested was dead
But I couldn’t remove it without killing the tree

So I let it stay
And I hope one day 
I’ll see it once more 
and know in my own core that it is free.

Best Poems Written by Amy Sell

Time Markers

The Phone Number In the Big Book

Say Cheese

Please Do Not Disturb

A Tale of Two Drive-Throughs

When I Was Your Age

The Upside-Down Umbrellas

Magic Sunglasses

Good Black Friday

Tree of Life