Who said woodpecker? How
will its shock-absorbency
system inspire me
to become my own
resource? An observation
made without an “I”
could be the most beautiful
hard-headedness of all.
Sixties Formation
“Rocket Man” is another one. “Sugar,
Sugar” “Hey Jude.” “Can’t
Get No Satisfaction”
“Georgy Girl.” More
than a personal history
lesson. More than nostalgia. This is
the indescribable
sound print
that tracks the birth
of my soul.
24/7 Hiss
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
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
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
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
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
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.
Invisible Surface: A Cinquain
To be
afraid to walk
on these icy sidewalks
is to freeze not just this life but
my soul.
Stranded Snapshot
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.
