leading out front
scorching pavers dulled i was chosen
this morning out of them all
to use a map
it doesn’t come to us this time we trace out
where they once played
music blew out the evening’s wick scintillating
music under the quietly laden floorboards
Robins follow discreetly, watching me weed each garden row
Turning up earthworms, fat and juicy
Easy breakfast buffet, no pulling, no neck stretching,
just a quick slurp and the wriggling worm is gone
One robin, finishes its meal, fixes me with an eye,
spreads its wings, hops twice and bows its head
You’re welcome, I say
Of all Superman’s amazing powers—
Batman’s brain, the Flash’s footspeed,
the strength of Thor & the Thing put
together, & best of all that really cute
lock of dark hair flopping just so
on his forehead—the one I envied most
in those decidedly earthbound years
of my early adolescence was his capacity
for flight, & more than that how he flew,
no clanky suit like Iron Man or prodigious
leaps like the Hulk or even wings flapping
like the X-Men’s Angel. Superman simply
looked up at the sky and rose into it,
making gravity inapplicable to himself,
his only accommodation to the laws
of physics flying in a prone and therefore
aerodynamic stance, slicing through the air
with his outstretched hands like the blades
of a knife, seeing every detail below
with the sharp eyes of a peregrine falcon,
scanning not for prey but for anyone needing
saving. Many nights I dreamed of standing
on the edge of some precipice, the earth
crumbling at my feet & about to swallow me
up, & here he would come swooping down,
snatching me from the jaws of certain death
& in an instant the two of us would be off
for a spin around the planet, my hand
resting lightly on his forearm, the wind
in our faces & the whole world laid out
just for us, Lois Lane nowhere in sight.
I didn’t awake with you lingering on my mind from a dream
the scent of honey in the spring and the mist after a lite sprinkling
I lay amidst purple tones of sweet pea color schemes,
contrasting in the midst of ferns of dark green
I like being planted in cool soil too it would seem; whilst anticipating the warmth from a suns beam
dancing only after drinking caffeine;
I have one thought and they waltz in a teem
Each morning the clock radio jolts her awake with the vapid musings of a daily show.
Wrenched from the dreamworld she begrudgingly stirs.
The light resplendent creeps past the sun-worn curtains, dances up the bed skirt and beckons her to join the waking world.
Each morning she puts on her uniform of khakis and a red polo, and readies herself to join the ranks of “yes m’am” and “how can I help you today?”
She slides a granola bar and a worn copy of the seven habits of highly effective people into her cracked red leather shoulder bag.
Each morning she waits for the bus that stops across from the Marathon station. When she has time she’ll run in and get a coffee. The intersection swirls with exhaust fumes as cars and trucks stream through endless cycles of red and green.
Still not fully awake she gazes out of the window of the moving vehicle. Children are on their way to school and men in orange vests wave people past concrete barricades.
Each morning she crosses the threshold of the big box store, burning coffee mingles with knock-off perfume. Sweatshop sundries hang off of headless mannequins.
For the next nine hours she’ll ferry cast offs from the dressing room back to their homes on the floor, like Sysyphus on the mountain, each morning, she will return.
Rehab is hopeless
if insurance is lacking
they’re back on the street
Now people know why
there are so many addicts
no exit in sight
Don’t tell her the Lariat of Truth is a jump rope
in a fanny pack, neon pink from the ’80s.
Let her climb the outside of the stairs, deflecting
unseen bullets with slap bracelets, a wide-eyed
wonder-woman scaling her grandmother’s porch
to fight the bad guys. Let her land
in that invisible jet when she jumps from the edge,
the scent of wild onion in her hair.
one day me and Stinky Jay
was riding our bikes in the
pond last night and was on
our way to the concert they
had last week at the Phoenix
theater which burned down
before they built it back in
1935 in the year 2000 and we
wanted to hear the opening
band that played at the end of
the show before the headliners
started so me and Jinky Stay
wrote letters home from
summer camp and asked
our mums to send a box
of cookies to the airport
and gave up on finishing
our math homework since
we didn’t have bikes and
the international space station
was passing overhead brighter
than the planet Venus II on
Earth I Day and Sinky left his
car keys at home last time we was
at my house after we both retired
from the railroad following thirty years
of service this morning and our families
put us in nursing bras and then we
danced the Pokey Hokey and I finished
my dissertation on phuantum qysics
and mailed it in along with three box
tops for a Cap’n Crunch pirate decoder
ring we was gonna exchange for the
prisoners of war still being held in the
desert hell of the Antarctic humpback
whale that swims around among the
mini marshmallows in the hot chocolate
Stanky Jiy wears on the brim of his pants.
the other day I started a new book
a used book, written by Stephen King
purchased online from a seller in Minneapolis I think
when I began reading, something curious fell out from between the pages
it was small, square-shaped, smooth
a white sealed envelope with the label “fruit punch” in black typeset
the only other markings indicated the contents were “kosher”
and users were to “add 8 oz of water”
I rubbed my thumb across this nondescript bookmark
flattened and smooth
presumably left by the book’s previous owner
a drink mix packet seemed a strange choice to tag the page where you left off reading
but it made me wonder about random items that have doubled for me as a bookmark
and what I might have forgotten
sandwiched in the pages of books dropped off at the Goodwill
or sold for a few dollars at the local bookseller
used envelopes
most likely with a grocery list jotted down on it
Splenda packets
napkins
business cards
receipts
neon post-it notes
points of entry into my life at the time
a pamphlet from Bryce Canyon during an RV trip a few summers ago
random thoughts that occur to me in the car
notes that may or may not have been jotted down on napkins as I lean against the steering wheel while driving
paint sample cards from my most recent renovation project
gum wrappers from one of the few times when I had chewing gum in my purse
business card collected at a conference
most likely for someone I never followed up with
inconsequential and significant at the same time
everyday artifacts that get the job done
in the Victorian era, it was customary to leave locks of hair in books
lovers would exchange tufts of their hair tucked between pages
what a delightfully romantic thought
what if I were to intentionally leave something in the books I gave away?
an intimate gesture to some distant stranger
generous words to the next reader
favorites quotes
notes about passages that I found meaningful
or
spoilers to warn readers about how the book ends
“It’s the boyfriend!”
“Don’t waste your time.”
“Jack dies at the end.”
That would be cruel
but kind of funny
Maybe instead of mindlessly snagging and shoving something between the pages
of whatever book I am reading
I will use it as an opportunity to bring in something
beautiful
lovely
expansive
