My Perch

I am that fly
on the wall—less
interested in what they are saying
about the arrogance
of that bartender, the scandal
brewing about his niece. More

concerned that the girl
in the red dress
will turn my wall into a sliding
glass door to open
or lean against
with silent longing.

Don’t Touch the Stagecoach

If I can’t, I will
need to hitch
another ride
into the labyrinth.

Dust and sweat
and wooden mile
markers will crowd
the view in. A spun-out

tale to find
the way out.

Horizontal Escalation

Let this be my plea
for relevance: be it subway
or skyway, I can see myself
out. I know when to exit.
I exist.


All exits are emergency
escapes from moments
that have died.
Write tiny epitaphs

for each and be accused
of living in the past. Without
them there would be
no future. The time has come

to forgive
our younger selves.