Scott Fynboe

Bruce Remembers Leather

and a troll he caught
sleeping on the bus between Essex
and Reading — a dwarf
that stowed away as Maiden
cased the backstage, looking for water.

This morning there is water all around —
the surface of a swimming pool scrapes his butt
through the hole of an innertube
and he raises a Mackeson to me
as I look down from my apartment.

This is not unusual — seeing Bruce Dickinson
floating toward the deep end, drinking beer
before I have finished my coffee. I’m used to it.

But I wish for new stories. Always
it’s the same ritual:
I wave, Bruce salutes.
I raise my cup, he lifts his bottle.
I say “good morning,” he calls me down.
I ask how he is, he tells me about the dwarf.


The Musician Napping out on Willis Road

For Jeff Hoag

Guitar case as pillow, slow
is the tempo of afternoon leaves
on dirty jeans and lumber trucks
that skate by. The trumpet
of diesel doesn’t bother him.
He is focused on the past —
women who: danced in parking lots,
made coffee, smelled like scented candles.
Evening is coming, the time to move
from the edge of Willis Road, slump
down the hill and find a gig,
a place to inspire a new song. Or two.



For Christine Sharpe

Wait some more.
They play “Freebird” at the end
and that is when I will put my arms
around your belly, pray
for an extended version
so I can memorize your sweater,
feel it a decade later when I toss
the ticket stub into the trash.


Formerly a radio disc jockey in upstate NY, Scott received a PhD in English from the Center for Writers in Hattiesburg, MS, in 2010. Currently, he is living and teaching in South Florida.