Briskly bypasses my house ten
or more times  a day with never 
a nod hello.

Is it for exercise or 
to exorcise some
troubling Demons?

I’ll never know
She doesn’t know 
how to stop.

My friend Mark never had a chance,
a rare case blew his pieces off the board.
We played games together,
the games of middle age that involve
love and betrayal and children and divorce
and new lovers and remarriage
and photographing and hiking together
to get away
from the malestorm.
We were the back to the land Cheevers
of the 80s & 90s.

               ~~~

i’ve gone on
to find myself knee deep
in old age and have begun 
to face the hard fact
of uncertainty:
a condition we’re born into
but don’t believe until
the a/c dies during a heat event
and it’s too heavy to handle
and there’s no one to help
that isn’t already infirmed

               ~~~

Today I’m downtown in the coolness
of the greasy spoon Pandemonium
playing chess with the assistant chef
Henry who’s way better than the last 
time we played. I know 
he’s going to beat my ass,
but I make him sweat it out to the end.
i think of Mark and how surprised
he’d be that I’ve gotten so old
that I’m thrilled to lose to this grasshopper 
  
 

Oh come see the moon-
the weeds casting tall shadows,
the gauzy bright clouds.

I am still amazed
by the beautiful night sky
with you far from me.

She has hove up bright,
colorless now as she climbs,
lighting all below.

One day together
we will stroll in milky light,
fireflies dancing.

It’s like a breath 
You can’t seem to catch
Until their eyes meet yours
That curve in their smile 
Enters the room with a gentleness
The phone rings with their voice
On the other end after a long day 
The wait to exhale and inhale again
Begins and ends with them each time 
Who knew what the universe had coming
All because you borrowed a favorited book
Who knew your house together someday
Would hold a library of your memories shared
A love story like a sonnet: genuine, steady and true.

Most of the credit going to Goldie for saying it, I just wrote it down, sharpened it a little and wrote the last verse and a half.  Copyrighted here for later sale at Cracker Barrel on 1.5 ft yard signs

          IF YOU PISS 
    UPON MY FLOWERS

         DONT YOU FRET
    FOR I WON’T GLOWER

           I’LL JUST HUNT
              YOU DOWN
                INSTEAD

        AND PLANT YOU 
     IN MY FLOWER BED 

          BURMA SHAVE

If the hour begins
writing beneath a bright bulb
guard it from the sun

Take every night’s pen
and draw a bath of warm ink—
steep until you sleep

Forget the alarm
across the hall, your dream
stuck in the mirror

Above the sink, face
the door and pretend it’s closed,
that you thought that far

Ahead—words naked
and bloodless, eyeless, toothless
fill your hands and mouth

And all the hours
blur at the edges before
drowning in morning

to the ropes of hot pink petals spilling
over the planter, and the aquamarine

eggshell, its cracked half a small bowl
beside the sidewalk,

and the spiderweb, round and
low in the lawn, a translucent

saucer. What made the spider build
its bed here, where foot

might stomp and trample?
Doesn’t it know the cruelties that creep

through this world? Some days I want
to drift right off this blue planet,

and you would watch me shrink
to a pinprick in all this sky.

Tether me, I pray.
Pull me back to the dew-soaked dirt.

Let me set my worries down
in this small cracked bowl.

Teach me to walk gently
in this fragile place.

Sunday supper are here favorties 
Her love of food was also an art
creating dishes from taste
the white plates  her tapestry 
sweet or savory depended on the day
each plate designed to satisfy her auidance 
she watches their faces 
pure delight
laughter and conversation fill the air
she never knew how many wou;ld attend this table
itis a place that those who enter 
always left content and with a fuller heart
they all knew 
she was sharing her love language
the art of cooking a home cooked meal.

I.

There’s so much that goes into

taking a vacation

in girl mode.

You help me navigate all of it.

Your love language is

going along with my bullshit.

You help me try on clothes

since I’ve lost so much weight.

You take my new measurements.

You order cute skirts

that match my tops

to replace the ones

falling off of me.

You’ve scheduled our mani-pedis.

I’ve scheduled my haircut and eyebrow waxing.

We’ve gone through the makeup case.

You will do the driving.

I will be the DJ,

playing our endless road trip mix.

We will try to soak up

as much joy as possible

for four days.

Rare are the moments

I get to be in my own skin

and we get to be with friends

who truly understand us.

The days will pass too quickly

in good food

and music

and dancing.

We will leave for home

on Sunday morning,

our hearts full

with enough memories

to sustain us until the next time.

II.

You are my partner

in fun,

in everything.

You bring the magic.

I am lucky.

I couldn’t do life without you.

I love that word:

partner.

We are equals.

We help each other.

We do what it takes to

save one another

from reality.

my thumb’s exposed flesh,
blood that nourishes the young,
our daily crusade?