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.


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.

No Back Pocket

She makes it hard—purse
strap worn across the chest
NYC style. Jacket to camouflage
it when hung on the back
of a café chair. To admit to the grief
of knowing one who has chosen

to check out. What choice? Practice
makes perfect as she drifts
back and forth
between stages once again. No two
alike—no prediction
when acceptance might spill

onto the round table with change.