Early Saturday Morning Pandemic Dream

walking becomes
riding a bike becomes
scooting between highway lanes
in an unidentifiable capsule
deep blue with white racing stripes

trying to get back

to the Bronx

your brothers play war

simulations in your bedroom closet

trying to get back

to the Bronx

where’s the #1 train
no one wears a mask
where’s your filter
take the N or the R
a stranger nowhere
near you says


where’s the light switch

to turn off

this nonsense

trying to

get back

to the Bronx
how did they
get in there
tails hidden
you follow
the #1 rule

of improv

don’t deny it

you’re lost

it’s the tell a story


you reject

without a way home
out of this offline
memory reprocessing
preparation for possible
future threats where the Bronx
is the only safe haven

2021 Begins With

a week of rime ice
on tree branches, fences,
power lines, news of a breach,
sedition, insurrection
within the US Capitol
inside the US capital.
Humid air in Minnesota
in January disturbs

the order. White feathers,
needing fanning, float
off the grid. Time to replace
the spikes on your traction aids.
Time to plead for it in a new voice,
hope, however off key.


With only one sub-zero day
this season, I worry the ice skaters
and hockey players
won’t make it

off the pond. It’s a new year,
and I still worry I won’t
remember how to talk to someone
unmasked. I won’t be able to unsay

the things my lips
expose, the blotter stained
with ink bled long ago.
Letting go of the pain

will take more than reading
the DANGER THIN ICE sign out loud.