Zippo
Even if I quit smoking I could never give up my Zippo.
This battered old engine, reeking of Father’s touch and fossil fuel,
fits in my hand like a cool steel skipping stone.
Category / Poetry
Another to Laura
In your office…
how you’ve bloomed
into a Tao of orchids
putting up a budded stick
Rock Wall
His hands, mine, grip, our backs bend, arms lift stone and carry. Gnats come close, linger, bite. Knees bend, ache. Can this be who we are together best – two people building a wall of rocks in the woods, arguing over what constitutes a straight line?
Continue reading… "Rock Wall"Beauty Marauds
They have no mercy
as they step in their high-heeled party shoes
into the meadow.
Dark-furred lips gather with expert care
The Anatomist
The chest is ajar after the lesson.
Now, alone with the body,
she reaches down and picks up the liver,
as solid as a loaf of rye bread.
Rock Paper Scissors
This round, the scissors you could crush
lie elsewhere. The sky flexes, blue.
We’re face to face, palms extended. A hush
descends: paper covers rock. True,
Whistle for the Sun Dogs
those dogs come
at 22 degrees
falling off
ice crystals
My Father’s Business Coupe
It had its comforts.
Beneath the seat, a pint of Old-Granddad
in a brown paper sack.
Behind the seat, a bag of peanuts
shells and all.
When I Knew the Makes and Models
I could walk down Hamlin street,
name them all: 1939 Lincoln Zephyr,
`41 Chevrolet Special Deluxe Coupe.
A boy, ten years old,
alone in his world of cars.
End of Summer
Sitting in a children’s circle, one began:
“I am going on a trip, and I am packing into
My suitcase … an apple.” And the second child
Repeated, added.