Category Archives: Day Poems

Speaker Less Easy

These legs ache from the act of hauling the memory of his voice and brilliant wisecracks out my door, down the back stairs, to the alley dumpster. Done. I lean these old wooden idols against the iron base on wheels. … Continue reading

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No Bus to Abilene

Welcome to your usual table by the window, to a few stories behind the Soo Line clock on the corner. Welcome back diamond-shaped laughter without a live audience. The flowers you ordered for your mother should arrive in time to … Continue reading

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This Is Proof

She can count to infinity, or as long as she lives to write. Poems are tallies in a growing series of figure eights. Notches in the leg of a wooden desk— here’s where it gets locked in. Little deaths and … Continue reading

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Seen Through Fog

There’s a story behind Staten Island Ferry orange. I can’t tell it but can hear its tone revealed in a soothing voice- over through early morning fog. Routine commuting becomes heightened by the transcendent moments before the marathon begins on the … Continue reading

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Filed under Afternoon Poems, Civil Twilight or Dawn Poems, Day Poems, Morning Poems, Night Poems, Overnight Poems

Town & Country

She sees an old station wagon with faux wood paneling parked on the street outside the Armory—now a parking garage. In by 9, stay till 3 for the early bird special. It’s not the ‘70s. She can’t hear Johnny Nash … Continue reading

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Some Gamine

Who only wears shades of red (with black). I could never be her—the way I give it away with my eyes. You’ll know my heart by how I hold my mouth. All the black (and red into pink) won’t shield … Continue reading

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No Spoiler

If I drove a car, it would not have one. If I had a baby, I would try not to overindulge it. If I built a cottage near the ocean, I would be careful not to ruin the view. If … Continue reading

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Fever Dreams

Two turtles sleep at the entrance to a subway escalator that only goes up. Someone says they’re hung over. I don’t believe him. Suddenly they show their heads, then legs, then crawl away. End of scene—onto that subway I only … Continue reading

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Poetic Laryngitis

No cure till the verdict is read aloud. Till her juror’s oath is played out, even a simple metaphor can’t be expressed. Nothing implied. All images captured must remain sealed inside a jar draped in red linen. Even fresh rain … Continue reading

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Jury Duty

She’ll tell you all about it when the seal’s broken.

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