She’s reading and doesn’t notice me
marvel at her mane of hay-red hair.
A small plastic clip grips one-handed,
like an underweight cowboy trying his darndest
to tame 8 seconds of prairie-wild bull.
The crowd holds its breath, but of course he can’t hold out
and creamsicle tendrils fall like fireworks across her shoulders.
For him, it’s a pat on the back, and better luck next time
For me, it’s summer night and starlight and ask her to dance.
reality rains
scattershot across windshields
herald of daylilies
diviner of would-be kings
until the lightning
It’s late June
The flies buzz around the porch light
heavy, lazy and hot
The girls next door play in the yard
older girls
teenagers
catching lighting bugs
their laughter, the radios low drone
Becoming the soundtrack of summer nights
we don’t normally smoke
but your match strikes in the fading light and I don’t reject your advances
I taste the nostalgia
My own mama sitting out on the same porch
watching the day fade into night
Blowing smoke rings into the darkness
the memories, they flood me
I don’t rush them away
not today, when everything is moving slowly
I hold onto them
letting the cigarette smoke engulf me
a different kind of baptism
I’ve changed so much
yet I’m the same
If I could step out of myself
without hearing my inner monologue
without feeling the racing of my own heart
What would I think of my actions
if the rationale, the intent were removed?
From afar, would I notice
the skin around my cuticles mangled from worry?
And when I stepped back into myself
would I love all of it?
Life imitates art,
The deer trundles through clover,
watches me with black marbles for eyes.
She gums a slice of bread whole,
inclines her head.
Welded to the spot, I can only stare
and breathe
and return her bow.
A hard part of being a parent
observing your kid watch a movie scene
knowing heartbreak lurks around the corner
inevitable crocodile tears will fall
allowing the pain instead of
saving her from it
sitting with your kid and her grief
enduring your own
filtering with empathy and experience
Harder still
watching your kid’s scene
knowing heartbreak lurks around the corner
inevitable crocodile tears will fall
allowing the pain instead of
saving her from it
sitting with your kid and her grief and
enduring your own
filtering with empathy and experience
Hardest yet
sopping up crushed pulp as a sponge
persevering ablutions as a sieve
filtering with empathy and experience
separating volatile components of life
refining and freeing the good stuff
concentrating on the tedious process
distilling it all in front of an audience of one
Jackson’s Coffee Shack has bad coffee
but it’s in a good spot.
The “superhero capital of New York,”
just about all of their flight paths
cross over the street
directly in front of the shop.
People come for the view
of strange spandexed individuals
bounding over the neighboring buildings.
Jackson’s thought about franchising,
but why bother?
No spot was better,
and no other spot
would be worth it.
Watson’s Coffee House
had good coffee
but no superheroes
flying over its spot.
It’s closed now.
The sickness follows me like
a beaten dog, or maybe the other way around.
The sun rises like a new bruise every morning and
heals every night, just to bleed all over again.
The moon blinks, sleepy, the moon blinks,
awake, eyes wide, eyes shut.
Still, I limp along this road just like
all the others before me and all the others
after. Bleed anew when I wake, sleeping,
just to do it all over again. Beg to do it
all over again.
The sickness doesn’t look so
sick in the soft light of day, yet
looking too long is perverse in the purple bruise of
night. Here, my bones grinding together, step after
step. Here, I walk, eyes open, eyes shut,
peeking out and afraid at what I might find.
The sickness beats me like a dog
and I crawl right back.
