Category: Book o’ Verse

Cell phone calls in
public toilets.
Smelling funny.
Mysteries.
“What? What?”
But there’s no mistress.
No jealous second life.
Just
nervous habits.

There’s a campfire
in Carol’s coffee cup.
Smoke signals.
S.O.S.
“Get me.
Out of.
Here.”

She liked to
look the
other way
when she opened
bathroom doors
because
you never know.

Soul is not space,
not molecules.
You can fit all the world’s souls
in the crack
of your ass.
However,
just because you can
doesn’t mean you should.

Today my son
is the Black Fox
in a one-kid revival
of the ’50s classic, The Court Jester
as he stands around the kitchen shouting:
“Hawkins, get out of my clothes.”
“Hawkins, get out of my clothes!”
He wants to play with Danny Kaye
but Danny Kaye is long gone.

That Victorian isn’t old. That car
isn’t old. My Sinatra records aren’t
old. Not that old. Not really.
Even that old tree isn’t old.
That old woman
who just walked past
like she just stepped out
of Deuteronomy
with a flock of goats trailing behind
and a thin little stick
and a plan
to get them all
to water by nightfall.
That old woman is old.

I’m wearing big pants today
big comfy pants
size none of your damn business pants
so big, so comfy
makes me want to have a piece of cake
a piece of chocolate cheese cake
stretch these big pants out.

Somedays
he looks at me
like I’m sleeping
with his wife.
And I’m sure.
I’m almost sure.
That I’m not.

Checking in to find them
lying side by side
in the dark
like sisters
comparing notes
on what had been
the best part of the day.

There's a man there
by the window.

And he's speaking
with such precision
you can see the letters spit forth into air
shiny newborne
serifs spinning.

And his words are just hanging out there
piling up there
in a loose stack
by the window
free dialog for the taking.

I'll pass.