They run shops
like captains at sea,
yet can’t understand
numbers of a sidewall.

“Give me the cheapest,” they demand.
An expensive 10-ply is required.
Not caring, they repeat their desire.
Weight means nothing,
until something snaps.

Specs are mere whispers
in a storm of pride.
Load ranges? Alphabet confusion.
Tread depth? Proof they failed math.

They float on confidence,
anchored to nothing.
As I hold the line—
voice calm,
hands bruised
from lifting truth
they refuse to carry.

Yet, even in their fog,
a light flickers:
a question asked sincerely,
a thank-you without sarcasm.

It’s then I remember—
I’m not just selling rubber.
I’m sowing trust
on roads they’ll never thank me for.

As we emerge from hallways,
the rain raps down like judgment.
Sirens sweep us through bluegrass
milestones, leave us hovering

so deep in the museum.
Near a small wooden stage front,
hands ache to play and applaud.

  ……
102. Nobody’s perfect.
103. You post about invading a smaller country all Nazi-like to rid them of Nazis, followed     up with an LOL and #latvia, and then tag Volodymyr Zelenskyy, but don’t even receive a     like, much less a laughing emoji, from a cool guy you considered a friend.
104. The very same guy reneges on your pact to pose shirtless on horseback for a     photoshoot celebrating shirtless men on horseback without the courtesy of so much as a     phone call explaining why, thus engendering feelings of rejection anathema to the     inherent geniality of the noble steed.
104b. Such feelings were augmented by the breezy yet rugged masculinity on display in the     photographs themselves—that’s something you could have shared together and looked     back on fondly for years to come.
105. An elaborate April Fool’s prank gone awry. Concealed within a tank was a bar of soap     saturated in see-through nail polish, a time-honored Russian Den’ duraka tradition sure     to yield “a fake smile and some eye-rolling”1.
……

[1] From “Celebrate April Fool’s Day Like A Russian” https://news.itmo.ru/en/features/life_in_russia/news/13689/

You dared me to

I get to see you
less than I see the moon
when she is full

but i wouldn’t trade
those nights

for a single, always
present star to fill
all those nights alone
in the dark

before I knew
you

were hidden
across that empty
distance

between

heart & home.

i’ve aged decades this year 

and my knees may never recover
i’m kept awake at night by the aches in my bones
and loud thumping of my chest
shoving fingers deep into my ear drum
to quiet the hum
careful not to furrow my brow too tightly
or it might never come down

this year has aged me decades
left me brittle and sour
desperate to be young again
in spirit and in body
still each day molds me like a cheese
and not a glass of wine

This blade of grass is mine.
I earned it, over time 
And time again, I’m sure.

I stepped on it and more
And over it I’m sure.
I hope it doesn’t mind.

And some I wore away
While going on my way
To wander here and there.

I chased a butterfly 
I sang unto the sky
And watched a deer close by.

Oh little blade of grass,
Forgive as I pass,
I’m only passing time.

For John L. Stanizzi

Margaret repeats kyrie eleison
and I don’t know what it means, 
though I know it has to do with the church, 
a place I haven’t been since
I was a student of Johnnie’s.

I’m seeing him praise poetry
live on zoom, for the first time
in fifteen years.

I can’t get over how differently
the same he looks, 
still wearing Rasta colors,
in a fabric we would’ve called
a drug rug in high school.

I see his face screw downward
as he listens, the same way
he would when we listened
to Thelonious in his fifth period
Jazz & Poetry class.

I wish I could still search
for his approval
when it didn’t feel like begging. 

I think he’s the reason
I love art as much as I do. 

When Professor Singer’s
father for the first time cried,
I realized how much stronger
these octogenarians are 
than I am.

Until he reads
his poem about his dental hygienist 
and I remember he is just a man.
But I don’t know him. 

His students are in the chat,
as I am for Johnnie, so perhaps 
he’s worthy of the same. 
his pronouns are
in his display name anyhow, 
so maybe he’s more
than an old man at an open mic. 

This reading is nothing like Silas House.
There is no bright green hair,
nose piercings or combat boots.

There’s no theme for Marla, 
but she starts out reading worms
and I know I’ll love her. 

She reads to me like I’m a child.
Marla is funny,
the first of the four corners
to make me laugh tonight. 

But like all great works of humor,
you’re caught in the trap by the end 
and tears of joy turn sour like
the pickle juice she squirted in her nose. 

But she brings me back to elation again
with walking the dog without a bra.

Then we move to Johnnie
and his voice deposits me
back into his classroom 
at Bacon Academy,
the way he lingers on his Ts.
I can’t write my emotions
fast enough,
all I know is he devastates me
and then builds me back up again. 

And then Kat says Johnnie
was her teacher too and 
she read us a poem,
about cunnilingus
and it wrapped 
up everything you need to
know about the truth with
which Johnnie taught us.

No topic needed kid gloves or
shame and it did more for me
than any math class
taught by a man who stood over us
and glared at our incorrect answers.

When I was congratulated 
by my fellow pomos
for my risk and vulnerability
I have to thank Staniz

There might still be rainbows and festive parades
a sun-soaked few seconds
when different feels safe to celebrate
glitter bomb moments on platform heels
hope and spirit meant to sustain.   

Shadows, though, seem near
as bright skies fade
harboring a much too familiar fear
freshly added patterns in pink and pale blue
left to smolder, fizzle, shrink back with sear.  

And in case assassination wasn’t enough
Milk’s name is ordered to disappear.
Yet, I dare say that even with storm clouds above
that ship will sparkle brightly this June. 
It must.