poem a day

White Bike

The white bike leans against a tree on Stark

It gleams in the dark and calls out

why don't you look where you're going

the white bike sees red pools on the carpet,

Tri-Cities

At Sharkey's on Glenwood
they've got steamers and

spiedies three for a dollar

 

The Last Time I Saw Richard

The last time I saw Richard

he was buttoning his fly

stowing rod and reel in boat's hold

after fishing illegal waters

 

he ignored no trespassing signs,

Welcome to the Club

it’s not a club
anyone’s anxious to join
most of us would put it off
as long as possible though
some have been members since birth
&

Rocio's Going Away Party

Rocio would have approved.
 

Wedding Day

It was a highly orchestrated,

carefully determined day and time,

and after the tirade in the temple

moved the money changers to Wall Street,

and after the Tower of Babel fell, and the

cacophy of voices rang out from the 

Upper East side, this was certainly the

perfect place, the only place for his wedding.

 

He stares into the sky, a hesitant

bridegroom awaiting his bride. Does she

come on the wings of a dove or by plane?

No, by now the skies are empty of

all but smoke and shiny confetti

Big Nose, Big Nose

The ex-husband's an artist. In

Mission Accepted

On today's hike the girl limps along an

uncertain path, startling a deer in the brush.

It bounds away, and she glimpses only a

flash of white above a sinewy hind leg.

 

A falcon soars overhead, a small mouse

clutched in its talons.

So unlike the pack of turkey buzzards with

their fleshy red wattles stuck in a holding

pattern over a distant hilltop.

So unlike the familiar hummingbird in

her backyard, hovering next to the

Daphne bush, whose tiny wings flap so

fast they are almost imperceptible.

 

Needs No Sharpening

When daughter was in second grade

we were summoned to the school,

told she stuck out her tongue,

angry at something her teacher

Mrs. Stevens said.

How Can I Count the Ways?

When grandson scrapes his leg on a barbed wire fence,

love smells like blood and alcohol and two Sponge Bob

bandages used to gently cover the cut and calm his fears.

 

When my sisters and I return from our mother's funeral,

loves sounds like the twenty-four cannonballs you make

into the neighbor's backyard pool and the squeal of

our children's laughter.

 

Love feels like crossing a marathon finish line

for the first time. Sore, exhausted, exquistely happy,

and seeing in your face the reality of a piggy-back ride

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