One March college spring break, I worked at a mall booth. 
Was hired to pretend I was Irish clothed in a green dirndl
mini skirt,hair in pigtails but the freckles were mine.
Doled out carnations tinted green. People scooted away
fearful I was asking for cash. “No, they’re free!” 

Was expected to hand deliver 4 dozen before my shift ended.
They feared I was like the Hare Krishna at airports that hunted
you down for donations as they shoved a flower in your face
in the 70’s. Second duty was to get the largest Irish family
to register for a prize.

Mind you this was not an area heavily populated with Irish
but it was St. Paddy’s Day week.
Another holiday tarnished with me as the foil.

      
Today, again the rain, at times thrown-wind-buckets.

There they stand
on a cobbled street
he in his kippah
he in his keffiyeh
eyes closed
lips locked

forever

or until the image
is deleted
which like all else
on the deceptively
diplomatic internet
doesn’t really

disappear

Woman smooths unposted letter, knowing sometimes it is right to lie.

If you ask me to justify my existence

or the existence of my creative output,

I will fail this assignment

every single time.

Part of my response 

is my usual rebellion

towards everything about modern life,

but the other half of my disgust 

derives from my inability to understand

how debasing others 

justifies your own continuation.

Even if I agree with you

that I shouldn’t be here,

don’t we all agree 

presence means more than absence

where livelihoods are concerned?

While I appreciate my life

and all the grafts upon my purpose

that have been lucky enough to take,

I may have run out of reasons 

that anyone but me will believe.

No, this late-night musing 

isn’t a cry for help, 

because I don’t want it

to bring us together in this way,

but this dissension from agreed-upon statutes

that define what you should do

and what I should do in response

might lead us to better answers

than your initial undignified tripe.

Can’t the two of us

justify each other?

Now I get to wait for your reply

and watch you squirm 

as you realize the same answer I did:

Neither of us can justify this adventure.

But that doesn’t mean 

that it’s not worth the time. 

how easy it is just to skip a day

tell yourself you’ll come back to it

in that eponymous yet fleeting tomorrow—

and I’m not going to leak into cliche and ask

what if there is no tomorrow—

but what happens when you raise your head

and realize 40 some odd years have passed

between you looking at the sunset

and gazing at the rise of the stars

and through a sigh you think back to Mary’s question

something about your wild beautiful life

that has been lived before you without the words to speak it

and realize how it’s always been

you some feeling made flesh

grasping at hot air and memory

always anticipating a midnight

and a blank page

and a promise of something foreign

coming back to you from tomorrow

you want the best for them

you cut corners 
when it comes
down to a choice 
betweeen aches 
that slide up 
your body 
like a hand 
of a desperate lover

and those in the house
that are under your care
you make sure 
they’re taken care of 
each problem 
becomes priority 

until it’s late 
in the night 
and that familiar ache 
become lightning
infused nerves 
lain under the skin
thin fingers 
splayed out

another sweat soaked night 

You are an expert danger
hunter. Your eyes are trained

to find the bent nail,
the beer bottle shard

on every dim street walk.

In the blue-screen glow
of 2 a.m.,

you scan the news
for threats of any kind—

microplastics,
ebola outbreak,
produce recall lists.

You IMDb-safe-search
every movie,
scanning for triggers.

You swab and sanitize,

check the locks
three times.

No,

a fourth,

just to be sure.

My love,

for once
let the dark
keep its secrets.

Come here.

Close your eyes.

Don’t be careful with me tonight.