The first time
I saw London
she still wore
the scars of war
scaffolding bracing
battle-brittle bones
like the wounded verteran she was
Yet she never complained of the pain
The last time
I saw London
a tall shard
of glass pointed
to the future
an eye
you can ride
looked forward
and pubs still filled
after 5
Cities learn to love with their wounds
This is why I love her
We hear it all the time
The crackled PA system in the supermarket
Looking for a child who lost his mother
Blonde hair, brown eyes, denim overalls
The angry dad on a road trip
No mater how many times he checked the map
He still can’t find Idaho’s largest ball of twine
Circling the minivan for hours
Your coworker can’t come in today
She lost her keys again
She’s searched the couch cushions, the cupboard, and the car
Guess she’ll be working overtime
You tell someone you’re lost
And they frown and tell you it’ll get better
But being lost isn’t terrible
We’re all lost
Lost in thought at school
Just boy drama and arithmetic
She dreams of singing on a stage in the big city
Twenty years later so many people came to hear her
The government got involved in taking down a monopoly for her
On his fast-paced walk to work today
He stared at his watch too long
Anticipating tardiness again
And ran head-first into someone
Spilling coffee on each other
Looking up, lost in each other’s eyes
Five years later the stress and bustle is over
And he’s sitting on the porch with his husband
Wearing their coffee stained polos
Lost in the book
Lost in the song
Lost in the drawing
Lost in the excitement
Lost in the love
What is lost must be found
And isn’t discovery an amazing thing
Neighbors! We must choose:
Is this alley for pissing?
Or for getting high?
Chirping at you in the morning
as dawn broke into this room?
Remember how you smiled,
touched my hair, my cheek, my neck?
Remember the little sounds
that answered my call?
When I sing, do my songs
sound as sweet as when I was a bird?
As I await my toast,
I set a plate on the counter
and slide open the drawer
to retrieve a butter knife
and spoon.
I drop them, clanging,
onto the plate,
then open the refrigerator
and take out the butter
and the strawberry jelly.
I open the cabinet
and take out a glass,
then realize I need
the milk, so then
I open the refrigerator
and take out the milk,
remove the cap,
and pour a glass,
I put the lid back on
and place the milk
back in the refrigerator,
then I pull my chair back
from the kitchen table
and set my glass of cold milk
down on the table,
followed by the butter and jelly.
I keep my plate near
the toaster, so when the toast
pops out, hot and ready, I can transfer it
quickly to the plate, then I will
carry the plate to the table,
set it down, pick up the butter knife,
peel back the wrapper, and cut slices of butter
to plop on my toast.
After that, I will open the jelly jar, pick up my spoon,
and scoop out a bit of jelly to spread across the toast,
mixing it with the melting butter.
I’m still waiting for my toast, so I sit in the chair
and take a small sip of my milk.
I pick up the newspaper to scan a few headlines,
but I’m distracted thinking about my toast and
that damn toaster, which I paid fifty bucks for,
and I’m looking at the clock
and realizing if I don’t leave in about
five minutes I’ll be late for work,
and it wouldn’t be the first time this week.
I think about what my boss will say
if I am late, and I think about Spencer,
my cubicle neighbor, who will
have some smart ass remark to make
when I finally reach my desk,
after the boss is through with me.
I think about what a shitty day
this is turning out to be—already—
with the sun not even above
my bitchy neighbor’s fence yet.
I stand, thrusting my chair back
as I quickly straighten my legs
and turn, accusingly, to face
the toaster.
I walk over to the thing
and peer down, noting
the red-hot coils are doing their thing,
and then I realize, in that moment,
I forgot the bread.
When I said vinyl is fussier’
today than when I was a kid,
my friend said “maybe it hasn’t
changed; your expectations have.”
When it skips, I let it spin and slide
a brush across, bristles meander,
slip, stumble through the grooves.
Gently pluck filaments of lint
from the needle. Adjust the arm.
I bought a kit to clean them.
Even heard casting in wood glue.
But sometimes grit is stubborn.
And scratches just won’t heal.
Notes lean forward, tumble back–
strangle the word you need to hear.
Sometimes you need to shroud
and bury it on the shelf. Sometimes
you just need to play something new.
A question, no urgency to answer:
This blank emptiness and sadness —
is this what the world felt like
when your marriages were staring
into the abyss, on the edge of jumping?
I’d expected to be angry in the hours
and minutes before taking the leap,
not deflated and gutted.
Yes: the anger,
what there was,
was gone by then,
taking with it
any love remaining,
and the long night of
what would never be
appeared in their places.
(inspired by the poem “Dawn of the Long Night,” by Marianne Tefft)
I get itchy before a shoot —
the word itself is anxiety-provoking —
photographing families,
the responsibility of capturing them
at this moment in time —
a tangible memory they’ll turn to
in joy and in sorrow —
weighs heavily on my mind.
To calm my nerves, I go through
my kit: two camera bodies, lenses,
a dust blaster, memory cards,
flash trigger, two lights
and a bounce, all in a case
with wheels I pull behind me,
luggage-style, as if I were traveling
to someplace exotic,
the Mediterranean or Bali
and not, as it turns out, a postage stamp
of a backyard that reeks of dog shit
in a bad neighborhood,
with no shade from the overwhelming sun,
a father who hasn’t shaved and can’t believe
he’s giving up part of his Saturday for this,
a mother who’s so visibly over
their two small children behaving
like tyrants, her pockets emptied
of gummies and Goldfish,
that she can only muster a sarcastic grin
when I say, in my cheeriest lilt
the incantation to make it all better:
Okay, everyone … now smile.
