The couple tastes like grass and gasoline.
Party drinks, tea, line the gazebo rails— 

ink black,  
strangest the magazines flip to 

pages containing hats, 
and cords of rope sustaining two who 

make love in pain under the weeping 
black elms, toes torturous bent 

like sacrificial doves, wings rent impossible, 
back to front, folded back.

Then something slow a whimpering 
called out a song, loud like dying. 

A rhapsody. Neither knew from music, 

or a skirt hung around knees 
while roasted pig served with noodles

fed the group of carousers with largesse.
Of all nights, one night’s groaning call of yes.

I always watch.
I feel I have nothing to add so I watch.
The world on its own can go on without me,
Stumble and fall and get back up again.
I have nothing to add so I watch.
But I want to help the one who stumbles and falls.
Sit with them on the ground while they nurse their pain,
offer first aid,
call an ambulance,
notify a loved one,
hold their hand until someone comes and takes them away
and makes them whole.
And though I never see or hear from them again
I hope I add something.
So I always watch.

Battered badgered ruminants, 
Not true, by
The way, like
Water Buffalo, but
(bison bison bison)
None the less.
Punctuate the sentence,
Mostly, with lapses,
Some, made when
I drift my 
Gaze to grass
Green highway signs,
Lake Erie starboard,
Steady, focus, count:
Seven times five,
Four spaces plus
An end mark–
That’s forty rows
of Buffalo! Too
Wordy a herd
To fit a
Page or web, 
So like Charlotte 
Does, Omit some
Rows, give praise,
Believe some universal
Momentum makes me
As swift, shrewd, 
Baffling, outwitting, confused
Here on interstate
 90 as this
Exit’s steely namesake.

Your black and deep eyes
are openings to caves,
the kind where rabbis slept
when Jerusalem fell
as enemies lurked in the hills.

You are so tired now.
Your Great War is finished,
that brush of beard hides
the rush of age, the wife
and daughter you lost.

I have seen you before: 1894,
posed for another shot,
derby, waist coat, watch fob,
legs youthfully crossed at the knees.
Message received: you were free.

The final photo is missing.
Thirteen years in your future,
back of the store in Clairton, Pa.,
my boy of a dad sad as he heard
his half-brother wail, “The tata is dead!”

my therapist wants me to work the fourth step 

but i can’t find compassion for 

the resentment i have built up 

i can’t find what i did wrong 

because i was a kid

a child led astray by someone 

who was supposed to love 

& protect them 

my therapist says maybe we 

aren’t there yet

maybe we are on steps one and two 

i can admit that i am powerless 

against my emotions 

they make my life unmanageable 

but i’m having a hard time 

with believing there is a 

power greater 

no,

maybe not that there is a power

but what that power is 

how can i just turn my life over

to something i can’t grasp 

to something invisable

yet seen by so many 

i have yet to see it with my own 

eyes, thus i have 

yet to beileve 

The child presses nose on train window, breath blooming white; he disappears.

 A man of many talents and trades
Roamed all over this country for a while 
Many a years before I was ever even a thought 
He tells me stories of his past life and then some
A farm boy, work hand, welder, coal-miner
Uranium mine well-digger, (that’s legit)
Lineman, telephone company worker
College student and computer programmer 
Son, brother, husband, grandfather 

Sometimes when he talks of yester years
Or drops the needle to hear the crackle 
On a particular favorited vinyl, his eyes light up
I can’t help but wonder where in time he goes 
He never shares those times aloud with me
One thing is sure in that moment, he isn’t here
I am certain when he gets to the end of this timeline
I’ll find him in the next combing through vinyls 
In the back of some record store in the middle of nowhere 
Or maybe on the third saddle at the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar
In Jackson Hole, after he made the train sing a folk song
He might be in the back of a rundown diner in Ohio
Dropping his last quarters in the jukebox 
Where ever I find him, I’m certain
Music will follow him, just like his name. 
My Dad.

Days like this, I wish I could relive every second.

I put my phone away.

I try to be mindful.

I want to memorize every detail.

I want to hold it in my mind

as long as possible.

I want to be in each moment fully.

I want to enjoy being here and now.

I want to savor these precious moments

we may never get again.

New experiences in a foreign land.

Dinner with friends by the ocean

during a light rain,

grown women playing in the water

like children

born anew.

Delicious sights everywhere.

A restaurant filled with

mini art galleries.

Endless good food.

A feast for the senses.

I want this all to nourish me

for a long, long time.

Took my kid and a friend to Culver’s today
I’ve probably purchased over a hundred kids meals
In the course of living in this part of town 
And today is the first time
I perused the menu on my phone
Clicking through options 
And realized they could have gotten
A complimentary scoop of custard 
With their meal
The deja vu hit me
And I suddenly remembered
This happened once before
Chick-fil-A also gives a choice 
To replace a cheap toy
With a cup or cone of soft serve
And it was not until many meals later
That I discovered this incentive 
Today, this knowledge made me irrationally angry
Why had no one offered the custard before?
Why had no one offered the cup or cone?
How many times have kids gone without
When it has always been there
Simply waiting for someone to ask?
But perhaps I should stop expecting better
There is no shame in big business
They expect you to manage
Your own bonuses
Hidden in plain view
They’ll give you the crappy toy
Or the coupon for later
Anything but the actual treat
After all
It’s the American way
To look out only for
Yourself