On the crowded sidewalk:
a woman, flaunting
her Louis Vuitton handbag, strides

past an old man squatting
in the doorway of a noodle shop,
his eyes cast down.  Incense burns

on his makeshift alter to Buddha.
A thin quiver of smoke corkscrews
above his head, then catches

in the folds of the woman’s skirt.
Chanel perfume ripples
in her wake, drawing his glance

upward – to her, to the night sky.
Cleared of smog, it dares him
to remember the moon.

MORNING BREEZE

Walking along the shady
access road I spied an
indigo bunting
–her brown form
silhouetted against the
gray gravel. She remained
still as I drew near, then
a morning breeze
   blew a shaft of
      light through
             the trees
                 and turned
                          that bird
                        into a leaf. 

Hot tea at 3
My mother remarks to my father
For as long as I can remember
She has never done the dishes  

While I ponder the dynamics
Of my first family
I foreshadow about my second
Am I going to do the dishes every night?

My parents did not raise swanky kids
The ceiling is leaking and so is my mind
Thoughts that dribble out and over time
Find their way from design to these lines  

Monday: doctor appointments
Tuesday: endless meetings
Wednesday: laundry, clean house,
     serve meal to recovery group.
Thursday: grocery shopping, yard work
Friday: family obligations, visitation
Saturday: prepare for Sunday
Sunday: a Sabbath?
I need a vacation away from me!

                                                (for Jennifer)

The woman I love is in love with Haney
Hardware.  She loves to see rows of screws
slightly out of line like good art.  She loves
to hold and guess the weight of common nails.

The woman I love loves to sniff around
pine oils and oak stains, to hear the racket
of washers dropped into tin bins.  She loves
to rub sandpaper across her bare shoulder.

The woman I love loves the way Mr. Haney
looks up at her when she climbs the ladder
to reach the paint brushes on the top shelf 

and how when she stands close to watch him cut
a hank of rope, he takes off his glasses
to glance at her list of home repairs

Crying tugs at your heart,
like it’s trying to give you a hug,
like it’s as sad as you are.
Making your breaths heave
at uncontrollable rates,
like laughter
without the smile.
Your cheeks are flushed,
but not because of embarassment,
not because you caught eyes with your crush.
Crying shakes your shoulders,
confusing your brain and heart
that won’t work together.
Crying confuses you,
in that moment you don’t know who you are,
it doesn’t know what it is.
Anger,
Fear,
Happiness,
all expressed at such a quick rate,
that you are left
dry.

Dandelions weren’t always seen
as infectuous.
They were born,
their yellow tops thought of
nothing less
than beautiful.
But as time went on,
the grass told them
they were the first ones to get mowed.
Roses snorted at their attempt
at what they could never be.
Tulips dug them from their
own mail box spaces.
When fall rolled around,
the dandelions saw
their oppurtunity to disappear.
Yellow tops
turned into white fluff balls.
No one saw the signs of deterioration,
they only saw the outcome.

Looking into a photograph
is like spying on the ghosts
who should be haunting you.
There all three of them are
on a porch swing,
a blindingly orange afternoon,
drinking Arnold Palmers.
Your eyes could ruin themselves at the sight.
If not for pictures
how frightening
how indifferent the world would be.