Bleeping EKG. Metal bed
rails locked. Long green
hospital socks slipping
from shin to ankle. Catheter
hidden under a towel
because in this 24
bed county hospital – down
the pike from Carnival Foam
& Rubber – urine
is an embarrassment. Outside
the factory where they press
deck plugs & industrial
strength face shields,
dogwood petals float
like ripped silk in late day
light. Polyurethane fumes
spin invisibly. I spot
a big-rig on Gallatin Pike;
its rumble vibrates the purple
plastic tumbler on Dad’s dietary
tray. I am listening for his last
agonal gasp. I always wanted
to be the ideal daughter. The hospital
monitor goes flat. I cannot count
his inhales & exhales. With blossoms,
the wider world unfurls.

is how I navigate the table talk in this Italian convento—
I scoop up all the words I know
and try to assemble them
into the subject of the conversation:
the weather?
last night’s football match?
what the pope said about Ukraine?
the roman traffic?
This jigsaw-puzzle exchange
gives me all the pieces
but not the picture
on the lid of the box.  

How is it hateful people live forever?
The years are too kind to the greedy.
The upper crust without a crust
of stale ass white bread to spare
for all those folks on the draw.
For all those food stamp recipients
trying to get their bellies full
on cold condemnation and contempt
and hot dogs.
How come hateful people

get to eat their fruits and vegetables?
And toss away leftovers
like somebody wouldn’t eat them?
I imagine they’re gorged by now,  
on sparkling clean water and caviar
or whatever those kinds of people
stuff their faces with these days.
I heard plain old fish eggs
ain’t fancy enough anymore.
Too common. The rarity has worn off,
taste buds have changed.
Wonder how caviar would do dropped out
into patties to go along with gravy and biscuits?
Stiffened up with Hudson Cream flour
and deep fried in lard till the edges
get just crispy enough. 

On an unnamed afternoon

                            after William Kitterman

imagine if this went on
much longer
if it happened again
and again 

an old friend speaks:
you are a scared little man
my sweet friend
my sweet from end to end

bring a cup of joe
sit here on the stoop 
slurping pain
let it happen once again

after the morning noise
where I thought much,
felt little—evening came—
and my heart was breaking,

no one was there to notice,
because I hadn’t noticed them.

Cathedral redwoods
Silent hope, our destiny
Walking together

Never touched one
No desire to wield 
a tool to kill.
Pleading to 
BAN
assault weapons.

Caregiving is a dance in light
dangling fingers and toes in spaces and places filled with indiscernible chi
ultimately leading to a place we all go . . .
the Light, the Shadow, the Dark, we know not
the caregiver grows in depths of silently knowing . . .
Listening to nature’s way of driving the transition from here to there . . .
gently shown when drugs need to be held at bay ~ and natural herbs invited instead
And as the usher, dim torch in hand, reads the ticket in the dark,
intuition leads on a lightened path,
ascending and descending in small steps 
right to the velvet lodge seat
as the Light grows brighter inside . . .