poem index

About this poet

David Trinidad is the author of numerous poetry collections, the most recent of which is Peyton Place: A Haiku Soap Opera (Turtle Point Press, 2013). He teaches at Columbia College and lives in Chicago. 

Peyton Place: A Haiku Soap Opera [excerpt]

David Trinidad
348

Just when you think you
can trust someone, they turn out
to be the Bad Seed.

349

I do not know which
to prefer: Shakespeare quote or
pillow fight after.

350

Stuffed bird and weirdo
behind desk—is Jack checking
into Bates Motel?

351

Rachel kidnaps the
baby, yes, but in preview
Betty and Rod kiss.

352

Something I learned long
ago, Connie: never turn
down a sedative.

353

Two policemen shoot
at and chase Chandler. All three
of them run like girls.

354

Leigh will one day win
Emmy, but not for losing
her mind on this show.

355

Here's Gena Rowlands,
Mrs. John Cassavetes,
much-needed fresh blood.

356

Relax, Rita won't
croak. Her weak heart will tick till
this soap gets canceled.

357

Jack escapes from jail
and takes off to do guest spots
on TV Westerns.

358

Whack! Nothing ends an
episode better than a
good slap in the face.

359

And nothing starts an
episode better than a
repeat of that slap.

360

"Again" (Fox standard)
is always playing at the
Colonial Inn.

361

Step right up, folks, and
witness Rod's imitation
of a barking seal.

362

This is just to say
Elliot ate an apple—
Golden Delicious.

Copyright © 2012 by David Trinidad. Used with permission of the author.

David Trinidad

David Trinidad is the author of numerous poetry collections, the most recent of which is Peyton Place: A Haiku Soap Opera (Turtle Point Press, 2013). He teaches at Columbia College and lives in Chicago. 

by this poet

poem
In color photographs, my childhood house looks
fresh as an uncut sheet cake—
pale yellow buttercream, ribbons of white trim

squeezed from the grooved tip of a pastry tube.
Whose dream was this confection?
This suburb of identical, pillow-mint homes?

The sky, too, is pastel. Children roller skate
down the new
poem

for Nick Twemlow

It’s annoying
how much
junk mail
comes through
the slot
& accumulates
at the foot
of the stairs

mostly menus
from restaurants
in the neighborhood

endlessly
coming through
the slot

despite