Home.

Talking down a road,
I trip over vowls,
stumble over consonants,
step on words,
get stuck in phrases
- weak and volatile,
short and strong,
long and languid,
until I finally find a

poem.

Telecommunication.

Caught in the last shadow of the year
between tea cups and coffee pots,
empty wrappers and broken bottles,
that one melody in your ear,
you redial.

August.

Standing on sweating blacktop
quenching your thirst with memories
of running along shorelines,
of building castles
and drinking sandy 7 Up,
like you never tasted
anything so sweet.

Drop.

Between a drop
and a coffee pot
Between a drop
and a coffee pot
Between a drop
and a coffee pot
Between a drop
and a coffee pot
- lies good luck.

On a Balcony

When our feet rested on concrete balconies,
beer in hand, music in back,
sunset in front,
it wasn't easier.
It only felt that way.

Kids

Kids' chatter,
Kids' laughter,
Kids' life filling
every pore of the car,
then,
          they leave behind,
a vacuum of silence
for our thoughts.

Rush Hour Apparition

In a sea of gray
your effortless skirt
is only topped 
by the Divine Comedy
on your knees.

AURORA

She came dressed

as a lonely girl. 

Not easy; at ease

with herself

by herself

for herself, 

on her own feet, firmly

planted in the clouds.

She stripped, lonely

layer after lonely layer.

Bit by bit, piece by piece,

shell by shell.

Standing there, 

beaming, glowing,

radiating, silent, 

naked.

She moved, 

breathed, touched.

Starch sheets, cotton shirts,

warm wood;

shoulders, legs, hair

moist skin.

She stepped away, took

away her skin, 

gathered up her layers

and returned.

Jamie.

Another spoon of sugar,

another spoon of rice.

One more cup of this, 

one more glass of that.

Ounce for ounce 

and pound for 

pound -

Eat.  It helps.

Simone.

Red lips, matching shoes;

A gust of blonde hair,

a cigarette.

She pulls her jacket 

tight,

exhaling,

waiting.

Mondays are the

worst - school.

Tuesdays she gets

off work early.

Wednesdays, Thursdays, 

fill in the blanks. 

Falls in love with Fridays.

Saturdays are an affair, 

Sundays are the breakup.

A light drizzle, 

rainy fog, 

her bus pulls up.

Today she'd be 

punctual.

5 O'Clock

Cars, cars, cars,
an endless line of postwork pearls. 


Buzz, buzz, buzz, 
rows of gleaming headlights. 


Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh, 
smooth downhill streams. 


Home, home, home, 
and then back up again. 

Little Things.

You wake up as a little thing.
You go to school as a little thing. 
You go to work as a little thing. 
You go to sleep as a little thing.


You work on little things.
You keep little things. 
You hold on to little things. 
'Cause it's the little things that count. 

A Moment.

A shared cigarette
    on the balcony.
Words falling between
    them like ashes
whisked away with 
   a sigh and a simple gesture.

Supposed to.

Spring  is supposed to be a fresh start 
after a long, bleak winter.
Supposed to.
Nature is supposed to start anew;
snow melts, blossoms bloom.
Supposed to.
Creatures are supposed to return, 
to shed their winter coats. 
Supposed to.
Sunshine is to supposed to warm, 
our limbs, our hearts.
Supposed to.
As when the leaves turned, 
as when the year turned, 
we're supposed 
to start 
anew. 
Supposed to.