Postcard from Lyon
There are many bridges
across the Rhone.
Because you are not here with me
I’m thinking of jumping in.
Gone baby gone.
I shouldn’t even miss you.
Learning French
by immersion. Eau,
you make me so thirsty.
There are many bridges
The sun sets on conversation
Germany, Massachusetts, Kentucky
all present
laser-focused.
The debate:
nature vs. nurture.
Harvard vs. Homeschool
Men vs. Women;
an argument for the ages.
Eyes dart back and forth;
Small fidgets punctuate counterpoints.
We say,
“Well–“
“…but what about-“
even though we all agree.
A prize,
the whole game was.
Nobody really made
it to the whole truth anyway.
“Good to meet you!”
“Same to you.”
“Have a good night.”
“You as well.”
I’m so grateful to live a life like this.
i watch as a small yet keen bird attacks a cicada
pulsating, screaming like the prey of birds it is
before that, a spider of the wolf-kind
bared calamitous canines, pounced
upon its buzzing daily portion
i’ve seen ravenous eastern cottontails glean
sparkling cherry red tomatoes from mother’s garden
like levitical law supposes
(though they reap before she can)
i sit on my rickety wood deck at night
to ponder the faith of an elder tulip tree
its branches raised to Above, the way
only a most devout creature can
if they never doubted, why should i?
the moon is always there—
a permanence, Mother Earth’s
emphatic song, waxing and waning,
appearing and disappearing,
belting out in full glory.
La Luna, La Perla, her voice
wobbly as of late, but tonight
this June Strawberry Moon
will dip lower to us,
will pull heart strings
to nearly touch and
bellow out an ode.
and I will dance slow,
in her whole notes
and trebles and clefs
I’ll start tomorrow.
Get some mulch, mount the TV
build the kids’ battery powered jeep.
I’ll clean up the garage.
Take the all the cardboard to the dump.
I need to finish the pulls on the dresser.
My low pressure light has
been on in the car
since the grass last had frost.
I bought the air compressor
I just need to mount it on the wall
and plug it in.
In the package it sits
just like every other unfinished thought.
I’ll do it tomorrow.
But tomorrow is me….
She’s always around, and usually that’s telling enough
But lately it’s been nonstop
I’m at the center of her attention and
every conversation is about how I feel
What if I can’t satisfy her?
She brings out every feeling somehow,
and to me, tutti fruitti could also be called paste
When the sum total of something’s parts leads to everything being canceled out
Can’t take that emotional math to the bank
Can’t go out to eat on it
And there’s a very narrow path along
talking my way in or out of things
where I’m regularly thrown off course.
Sometimes we hold hands when we sit on the couch
and watch from underneath as great waves pass over us
while I tell her that they should invent a different way out
other than through.
I am a prisoner of the State of West Virginia. A place I’ve never resided holds me captive. It is the place of my people. The place that held them enclosed, locked in as they were by steep ridges, by stone walls, by metal bars. I guard their memory. No story escapes me. My pistol is my pen felt-tipped and at the ready.
