Month: March 2011

Today
iv.

Today,
Don is thinking
about his mother.

she wore bobby pins
in her hair, he tells me.
it was curly.
like yours.

she would never
slip pills
into drinking water. or
speak to
strange men. or
go dancing.

would you like
to dance?

can I get you
a drink?

Today
iii.

To you,
they are black t-shirts.

Who could ever need so many?

To me they are:
late on Monday and
first-time client and
ignore this bad hair day and
celebrate because day and
casual day and
not my birthday and
the bosses birthday and
bring your daughter to work day and
not every day and
no daycare today and
last weekend and
lost weekends and
just back from Mardi Gras and
family vacation and
in need of time off day and
the middle of Wednesday and
work-in-a-workout and
in-between seasons and should maybe have
just called in sick day and
hooray for the team day and
it’s raining again day and
we can pretend, but it’s still
not quite payday and if

time, being time,
forget this kiss,

then yes.

On that day, they will seem
like a stack of black t-shirts,
plus one.

Who could ever need so many?

Today
ii.

Patrons sift through
newspapers. Open
today’s mail. Try to ignore
the sportscast vs.
muffled oldies
competition.

One pair wanders,
drawn toward pop
machine. Then vending.
Father buys peanut butter,
Orange Crush. Son gets
chocolate chip, Mt. Dew and
replica
of father’s chin.

Startled goose
calls out
from son’s
back pocket. The ride’s
here.

Repair-shop window
watches. Blinks.
Thinks this
could
be a postcard.

Today
i.

what happened today
was a dream.

sponsored by
wireless access. online
storage. streaming.
geocached
with an app. no need
to refrigerate
after opening.

Stay
v.

you are
a weather forecast,
calculated hint
of things to come.
ears across
a thousand
lakes stay up, wake
up to listen—

saving
grace of new
Love’s uncertain
conversation,
slipping in
to fill the space
when

Love has gone.

Stay
iv.

you are
a morning fog, floor
exercise
hell bent on
tumbling into
traffic.

somersault and
roll, half-twist whisk
beads of sweat
at windshields.

transit drivers glance
and wipe, commuters
file into offices
just one small
rabbit
stays to watch
the end
of your routine, no
scoring
cards, no
roses.

Stay
iii.

You are
an unexpected storm

a long ride home, slim chance
worth taking.

Even gracious hosts
won’t ask you stay.

The Faithful
drive straight through.

Leave their clothes.

Rapture.

Stay
ii.

you are
an early Spring, a
hooker
out of blow. last
call’s drink
left on
the bar because
the building
went
and set us all
on fire.

if you believe this–
if you wish
to sit.
stay.
settle…

there are
hinges
to be left alone
and matches
not to gather.

Stay
i.

you are
a late snowfall,
blanket of
sleep, cool pillows
to sink
into. sad because
no one
wants you
to stay.
even the tolerant
shake their heads.
sip coffee.
say:

the sun will come and
float your mattress
out to sea.

Again
v.

it is the moment you realize everything and
everyone around you
is mirage.

and when you leave home
you’ll find your lover has been
sprinkling breadcrumbs
on the path again and
footsteps in the puddles lead to
monkeys, muse and morals and
you will not be
perplexed

by this.