I felt lucky today at the gas pump at Cumby’s
the pickup trucks with their dragon breath
refueling, and New Order on the outside radio
as they pulled up and parked,
got cigarettes
and the coffee from Ipanema
(available for a limited time)…

Solstice Stillpoint

This is the stillpoint of solstice:
late June, evening. The milltown river,
with its floating candles flickering
as an orange twilight falls.

In this newly minted summer,
porches commune with their rocking chairs
and sunsets unfurl slowly.

My inventory of the longest day
reveals a stasis of bliss
settling inside my core
like a reservoir
when hope is complete:…

Love in the ’90’s

Today the world is a disco ball
with glitter pyrotechnics
dappling the sunlit road
and all the trees are money trees,
and all the potholes pots of gold.

The earth is strumming its Carlos
Alomar fat bass riffs under the snow
and the cardinals all fight for the limelight
of the sun’s pulsing paisley fractal smile…

The Things Trees Say

Today I forgot I need walls.
I had to park my car
and walk to the post office.
I left my agoraphobia
behind in the hot back seat,
balled up with my sweatshirts
when I grabbed my cane.

Google lied. I thought it was closer.
One more block;
one more block.
My knees parse the distance…

Letter to My Daughter

I’m sorry for all the things I taught you
when I was still learning to be myself.

I’m sorry for all you learned inside me,
the monologues I baptized your splitting cells with
on long walks home from the train
after working on my feet all day
or on the way to the laundromat,
pushing the cart over packed snow—
at the sink, on my knees, at the stove,
hanging the rags to dry; and finally, in dreams—
once I felt I’d earned the right to sleep.

I’m sorry for the way I said it was,
the things I said we do for love.
I said it like a prayer, while getting him tea
in the hours I didn’t need to be awake in.
This is how we love…

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