24/7 Hiss

/ Arambler / 1 Comment

All the mail
carriers lounging in the corner
café reek

of smoke. Meanwhile there’s not one piece
of even junk
mail in my box. The transference

of my father’s
photo from a filled blank book to a fresh
empty one

is complete. I know the wind
chill is brutal, but
what happened to that unofficial motto?

Neither snow nor rain
nor heat nor gloom
of night stays these couriers
from the swift
completion of their appointed rounds.

Yet now
I can hear the radiators whisper incessantly—beware
what you wish for.

Note: The unofficial motto is an inscription on the New York General Post Office located on 8th Avenue and 33rd Street.

Belated Love Poem

/ Arambler / 3 Comments

This is not
about dissecting bee
hives, celebrating dead
presidents (stacked or face

down), the last time
I saw grass grow
anywhere. This is

about the first time
we spoke and you made
a joke and the train jerked
to a full stop. It was the end

of the line,
and you and I
had just begun.

Homonymy

/ Arambler / Leave a comment

A stranger asks
if this is all
I want to do
with my life—be
a synonym
or antonym. I know the art

of silence, how to resist
a reply, how to avert
the eyes. I know how
to make anyone
walk away. Know
the loneliness

of a skyway
on a Sunday
afternoon. Exhaust
hues get bundled
into a string
of knotted pearls

a woman might wear
one evening
too easily ruined
by a broken
traffic light
in just fallen snow.

Attending Malvern Elementary

/ Arambler / 1 Comment

The girl who walks
alone to school, to the library,
home pogo-sticks
in her street
on snow

days before
Easter. A newborn
and marriage unraveling
inside, no one notices
her absence. Still

hasn’t begun
to swear or stop
believing.

No Junk Landing

/ Arambler / Leave a comment

A burning
to the eyes, a jet’s piercing roar
and clear vapor trail
overhead jumpstart the day.
No one walks
on those snow-covered trails
in the city park

on a morning like this. An asteroid
streaks by on schedule, a meteor
blasts in uninvited. Watch
those extremities—exposed out
there, or accidentally brushed
against a radiator
working so hard.

And sometimes
there’s no safe passage
over ice.

I’m Not Going to Write a Love Poem

/ Arambler / 2 Comments

On a cocktail
napkin to be recited
in a pub

on Valentine’s Day. Never
drank whiskey when
I still drank. Never

understood romance
when I still believed

it could happen
to me. Never stopped
believing it could
happen to you.

Stranded Snapshot

/ Arambler / Leave a comment

Is this rain, or sleet, or miniature
hail—this life becomes
a wintry mix. No plot, no narrative, this is

continuous till
it ends. But it doesn’t stop

there. She slips on a Howard Ben Tré
sidewalk glass
eye and falls. Waiting

for a bruise to form
on her upper right

thigh, she seeks
comfort in the purchase
of a sky

blue button-down shirt.
On her way home, she walks slowly

around the offending
eye. Accumulation answers
the question no one really asked.

Relentless

/ Arambler / Leave a comment

Everything echoes
interruption from 5 ½ months
ago. Another trip
to an art museum

suspended. Piles
of new poems stacked
against a stucco
wall unblogged. All walks

come with a hollowed-out
hive halfway
through. If it’s a before

after scenario, this is
the in-progress video
that won’t end.

February’s Pedestrian Rant

/ Arambler / Leave a comment

A smart phone huddle
awakens that skyway
bridge between the bank
and liquor store. Disorientation
comes from peering
at street level. Wine
tasting is on
another night.

“Take a break
from Face
Book to face
the forgotten beauty
of a real book.”

Where did I
read that?