Posts for 2020 (page 42)

We stopped at our usual black grated institutional bench.
Someone placed a red sticker on its arm.

Luckily no dog walkers appeared today causing my 
little man to go into small dog syndrome.
He snarls and barks keeping all dogs at bay protecting
me from some imaginary danger.
Puffing his ego and embarrassing me.
Putting shame to his therapy vest at home.

Under the spreading chestnut elm we were shaded.
Birds chatter perky gossip from tree to tree.

Three couples stride by in sync.
The women chatted hands a flutter but the men
focused eyes straight ahead.
Just like my Jim.” We’re walking not talking.”

Serious bikers with helmets, gears, and spandex zoomed by.
Families with young children new at biking took their time.

Walkers and joggers passed at various speeds.
A few nodded hello.

On our return to the car Clancy lunged at smells in the grass on full alert.
Ears perked. Tail up. Trying to impress with his prowess as he drops
peemails on blades of grass, bush or tree imagining what he would do
if I dropped his leash.

i can’t remember the last time i caught a firefly 
and i don’t know when i stopped calling them
lightbing bugs 

time passes, and the frequency with which i say
“my memory is terrible” is getting worrisome 
i know 

no one warned me about this part of imbalance.
the tidal gaps of rushing water once a moment 
now forgotten

i’m too afraid to talk about how afraid i am.
like maybe if i don’t speak it out loud, it’s 
not real

so for now i’ll fill my notebooks and keep my fingers
crossed that photographs take long enough 
to fade

tied their legs with thread
we watched them fly in circles
I grew up country

remember that last afternoon hanging at tar beach
you and me and mike and a cooler full of beer

and the hot so hot sun on our hot so hot skin
shiny from oils we painted each other with

you holding his hand while he held my hand while I held your hand
as we lay on thick towels and sang along

to a boombox blaring skating rink hits over background music
of engines and car horns and children dancing in the spray of the hydrant  

and when we drank enough and toked enough and we thought we were burned enough
we moved to the cooler air of the apartment to share a shower and drink more beer  

and roast hot dogs on the tiny grill on the fire escape
watching the sun slip away behind towers of brick and glass and cement

and one by one fell asleep on the giant pink sofa that filled the tiny space
kissing goodbye in the morning did we even know

this was the last group hug the last see you soon the last weekend
the last weekend 

you eatin’ today?
the waitress asks
the man sitting
across from us
as she sets down
his black coffee
he gently shakes
his head and
sips his drink
the woman begins
narrating about
her time working
in a nursing home
and how there
were a lot of
peoole there
suffering from
parkinson’s

meanwhile
a flamboyant man
with a stubled face
counts dollar bills
in his hand
and a crowned woman
pulls a basket of eggs
from the refrigerator
and laughs and sings
and cooks our food
so we can all keep going

Your text has been staring
at me for five days. Five days of typing
only to quickly delete
my thoughts
before ever giving myself a chance
to hit the blue arrow.
You’ve always been missing
from my life,
but there’s your circle.
Locking eyes with me
on my homepage,
giving me no choice but to stare
back, putting you
in the front of my mind
everyday. I just don’t know
if I believe in
19th chances,
maybe tomorrow…

Today we fill the silence
with our daily woes. A looming
death in the family.
The dangers of
hereditary alcoholism.
Why don’t you call more?
I close my eyes
and listen to the gentle
drone of our table fan,
lose myself in its idle
summer hum.

I am full of
nothing. My cup
runneth over with
hollow offerings.
To the tune of tragedy
I offer emptiness as tribute.

The sun hangs low in its 
noose, broadcasts scarlet
fermata final breaths
to an audience of stars.

The thoughts cut deep tonight.
They slip in, uninvited, 
critique every thought
and tear at ambition with
vorpal fangs.
The night stretches on,
endless, before me.
I press pen to paper and bleed.

In the time before she swallowed fear,

Walking through
the garden
in late evening
when the sun
slides behind
the hills and
its rays
spill over
highlighting
small slits of gold
in patterns
across the ground
transports me
back across
the years touching
each summer
leading up to now,
planting seeds
and weeding
and watching
and waiting.
I carefully place
my feet between
the rows of
cabbages
and kale,
onions
and beets
and basil.
Breathing in the
sweetness of
tilled dirt
and growing plants,
the cool air heavy
with dew, I soak in
those moments
with my feet
on the earth
and my head
playing memories
stretched across
my days.