Untitled

Veuve Clicquot in a juice glass
Yosemite Sam, guns raised, chasing round
something chipped off the shoulder of the old crock.

Clear here
we bubble up

through glass
a half-melting one
with a bomb a
someone who can
stop
unstop the cork

and burst free
into the evening air
of the marketplace.

A trace of
peaches
tamarind
cinnamon
now gone
is what became of us
rosy, dew-kissed, connected,
rocked to sleep by cool salt breezes, fresh from the sea.

Staycation

Plan the packing
Clean the camper
Test the tailights
Change of clothes
Popsicles and Pop-Tarts
Bikes on the back
Gas in the tank

A house filled with windows
with a deck out back
where a swallow of Starbucks
spins round in my favorite cup
Feet point west
as the sun falls through
a pink and blue sky.


(Note: If allowed, the words in the first stanza would be struck through with a pen down to "Gas in the tank".)

Shadorma

Rain pours round
our house and joins the
waving fields
of waiting
for everything to dry - out
palms skyward, we dance.

The Man Who Made Me

Wish I'd met the man who made me
the one who found his way to life
in his own summer of love.

The one who, in a hospital bed,
clasped the arm of a nurse that must be me.
The one who - later - traveled far, then
lay down and cried at my grave.

He lost his way
somewhere between love and life
but, kept me closed up in his heart
and never told, but always thought.

His brain betrayed him
and took his life before I had the chance
to say . . .

My Last Supper

A meal of mostly meat
to last more than the night
fills me up before the body knows to register it's dismay.

Ribs stuck to the bone and
scattered bits of barbecue mix
with a simple crunch of chips.

All rests like a stone above my hips
and follows me.
It whispers to me of long nights waking
and a morning light with
no desire for more.

They're Coming For You

The Weather Service is proud to announce
a tornado was spotted three miles from your house.
Find a dark narrow room, you know what to do.
Take cover. The twister is coming for you.

The crank-n-go tv inside your small room
recalls an odd man with a strange accent who
holds a sizzling cannonball in his outstretched hand.
If he should lob it, we know where it lands.

So, you pull into church and pray for safe keeping,
then return to find your GPS isn't beeping.
How will you know quite where you are
or where you are headed, or exactly how far?

A passenger played with his shoe mid-flight,
a guy hung around the ATM last night,
a jiggle at the front door had something in mind,
look both ways before crossing the street - and behind.

A Worrisome Thing

a wart is a worrisome thing
planted there by pixies or gypsies
cocooned in a tough circle of life
it pushes against my shoe and foot
each step tracing its breadth and depth.

it left me once, but returned a spring day
while walking bare feet to gravel.
A kiss from corners of small rocks
revived what was merely sleeping.
First stirred an old familiar feeling,
then an itch that wanted to be scratched

tonight, legs crossed, foot over foot
it looks out across our comfortable bed
to see a vanishing solution on tv
- and laughs.