I hope you see my face 

in every crowd you encounter,

and as your smile drops 

when you meet a stranger’s eyes, 

I hope it swings 

like Judas

my love kisses me in recovery, he tells me I smell like flowers. 
I inhale the scent of a new casket spread, of freshly mown graveyards. 
These lily of the valley encounters: 

the long shadow of morning hours,
hospital bouquets with their get-well-soon cards,
my love kisses me in recovery. He tells me I smell like flowers.

I think of dying trees, leaves, and flower
petals. Once, I mistook autumn for spring as a child. 
These daisy and white lily encounters:

blooms of chemotherapy flowering,
deep roots within me, what are the odds
my love kisses me in recovery and tells me I smell like flowers?

The many hands that folded in prayer
have left me smelling of yarrow.
What a gift I have encountered. 

How blessed we are to have this time of ours,
my love and I, with our two brave hearts.
He tells me I smell like flowers.
I smile bright as a chrysanthemum. 

If you went southbound this weekend you’d meet your nephew
Nobody’s seen you in town since Christmastime
The lights have been stored away for months
There’s dust that’s long been settled
Your brother is not your dad

Even the Bears are going south, I heard
You could always come back, too

a poem that’s not coming to me
a deadline that’s barrelling towards me
old CHiPs reruns on TV
(the good old days
before Jon left the show)
ill advised cherry coke
out of my really cool guardians of the galaxy cup
conversations about the price of ketchup
there are worse ways to spend
the last minute

Every other Thursday I take her
out to lunch, fold up her walker,  

order her food and get to hear again
how much she hates Trump, hate that man,  

all she has had to say for a year.
Days are spent watching MS NOW.  

They are like me!  They hate him too, 
she swears.  I am flooded with images  

of families enraged by grief, love,
loathing, wailing over bloodied bodies.  

Rows of shrouded civilians, bagged
soldiers.  Hate is poison, this is  

where it leads, I want to say. Can you
get back to decoupage?  To yoga?  

Truth is, no longer able to get out and march,
these are her comrades-in-arms, MS NOW.  

the house is quiet 
all but for the jingle of
the cat’s collar bell.

Everyone loves these beautiful trees
Climbing their ladders 
Reaching up for the sun

There’s nothing quite like
the green of their leaves
Bright and welcoming for the
Sake of the birds

Dull they may be to those who know them well
But to every newcomer
of every new tree
There’s a gentle, yet bold
Beauty to behold

Is it always
just going to be
this way, or
am I actively dying?

The hysterical woman
in me
finds that a rational
medical question.

And the answer could be C,
somewhere in between, but
I’d really like to know
in case

it B my very last choice.

To paint myself into
my own imagination 
I stare at the mirror
to catch sight of the stubble
I can only feel.

I’m in a state of wonder.
How have I come to be here?
Alone, but not lonely
I tell myself.
The chairs are my companions,
and I’m having an intimate affair
with the dining room table.

Brian, Helen & Dr. Hue
are all gone. Temporarily
they each in turn exclaimed.
I wonder.

Still I get out.
Mondays I sit in Felicitous Cafe.
The waitress looks like Penelope,
gives me the same goo-goo eyes.
Thursdays is for Lettuce Lake,
natural gem of inland Tampa Bay
where Brian & I romped around
with alligators and osprey.

Tonight I’ve caught a chill,
a little fever perhaps.
Another glance in the mirror,
a few sips of Brandy,
the yawns begin,
elusive sleep is near
until I’m struck 
by a lightning bolt of fact,
I’m a great-great grandfather.

The clouds are like fish mouths waiting for papery flakes,
pebbles in the shoe of the Almighty,
a flagstone path for commercial jets,
spilled contents of a disciplined piggy bank,
butter mints served on a pizza receipt, the ones I can never decide whether to chew or to savor