Would you look at
the tension in her elbow? There she sits,
cuffed and ironed, white blouse and wool skirt.
pin-wrapped hair, a don’t-come-any-closer posture,
flame-red flats lifting the weight of her independence.
…but haze-filled indecision still lingers…
Grown Men,
smelling of aftershave and tobacco,
adjust their belted necessity and wait for her
to understand reason, their vision.
Can’t she see that all morning they have
wasted paper, and this case
is about profit.
And then…
there is Stan- a young man who
gave his brown hair a fresh combing before
grabbing his wife’s pencil from
the ‘for emergencies’ notepad in the hallway of
their inherited starter home.
Who cares about any verdict when
it is a September Friday, and tonight,
while the White Sox go deep, there will be
cold meatloaf sandwiches, sliced thick on warmed sourdough?

– a response to Norman Rockwell’s 1959 Saturday Evening Post cover, The Holdout. 

Picked my battle and lost,
ultimately it made no difference. 

Picked my battle and won,
ultimately it made no difference. 

So why fight 
over stuff that doesn’t matter?

I think of your name
with post-nomial letters,
a well-earned title

highly qualified
you snuggle close to my chest
melt into my arms

rumbles of content
vibrational therapy
cortisol lowers

eyes yellow-lime green
reassuring companion
slow blinking your love

needling kneading,
stitching safety and healing

I’ve been avoiding writing about my dog again.
In the bum-rush hustle and bustle
two new puppies and three kids
I don’t have a lot of quiet time
alone in my mind.
I can avoid
the paw shaped hole she
rent from my chest this spring.

The new puppies are black, mutts, abandoned—
the same as she. 
I had forgotten the youthful vigor
she once had.
I’d grown used to her groans and moans
her rapt bark of attention: “Come fetch me!” 
when she’d had enough of the rain or the heat.
Everyone knows the bargain
when you adopt a dog—
this is not forever.
Their whole life could not be 
the same length as ours.
No physical form
could possibly contain a dog’s love and light
for too long.

So I fetch my two pups—
lanky, growing all the time—
digging in the yard outside.
They cock their heads sideways at me
as the tears I’d been avoiding
come crashing down on them. 

We named you Gloria
Sleek black lines
Heavily decorated with dents
A neighbor was selling cheap
Not my dream car
But you became
The car of my dreams  

I was a cautious driver
Hauling my mother
To the Piggly Wiggly and library
Posture straight from the manual
Hands at 10 and 2
Radio muttering low
The local news and weather  

But not so with my weekend girls
As we tooled the town loop
Center Avenue to 8th Street
And down along the lake
Fire drills at the intersections
Hand cranking the windows
We honked and hooted
Blasting the top ten favorites
Checking out what couples
Were parking at The Point  

On nights when the drama
At home went from bad to worse
It was just the two of us
Heading out of town
To where the lonely roads led
Both humming softly to the stars                  

I imagine watching corn grow in summer
(an awful lot of squeaking)
and as I approach 60
and 1996 seems like last year
I’d rather watch the grass grow
        let my grandsons run in slow motion on the freshly mowed backyard 
        let their two- and four-year-old baby faces stay soft a few years more
        stop the sun right there, behind the treetops, golden

I really needed to write this today. Enjoy. 

My Fuck Ass Family

I was feeling good.

I was feeling great.

I was seizing the day

until my fuck ass family came.

I have an older sister.

She’s golden and accomplished,

pretty in a conventional way.

My mother came too,

tagging along my oldest daughter.

I felt grateful

and fulfilled by their visit,

but there was a feeling inside

paying a visit of its own.

A familiar visitor.

One I’m becoming comfortable with.

I had a house full

inside and out,

and I know in my heart

without a doubt

that I don’t align

with anything they talk about.

It’s not deep.

It’s not true.

Just gossiping about

the who’s who

of who’s that.

I am not into all of that.

They disregard my dreams

and my goals,

and smart off

to my eleven-year-old.

My fuck ass family

came to visit,

and so much happened

that I have to sit with it.

I don’t fit in.

I’m the odd man out.

Half the time

I don’t even know

what they are screeching about.

Are they unhappy

with their lives?

Are they just dense and wry?

I have no answers

to these questions.

I just separate myself

from my fuck ass family.

 After James Tate’s “Consumed”  

Belief in light is fragile,
a pretense of faith, like
church bells on Sunday mornings.  In truth,
freedom to believe happens to everyone,
even those who don’t know, whose worldview
can change radically at a moment
unexpected, half-explained.                                               
                                                        Next
may go your consumption of news, so
ruinous to faith, to justice, to
hope for the right and good, for
fateful dreams that don’t lie
or taunt.                
                         “I’m nobody,”
the poet says, her wants
passing through dark and in her words,
you find a way, a home,
a marketplace of possibilities—
never the same-old—an experience
of the impossible, the unforgettable,
a shared longing, pure, true,
all the stranger for never being over,
for landing you
in now-familiar light.

Why do we bother
to teach?

It is difficult to understand
in 2026, but unmasked–

even celebrated – the Piper
unapologetically sending

faithful to the hell
of hypocrisy.

Stymied by the blatant
lies swallowed,

without salt
or sugar, but

with a desperate
smile.