Quickie

That subject line is not the title and does not imply a metaphor.

Donut

Thick as a kiss or a jerk
and orbiting tht place
where it is not,
it carries its empty plexus
into your belly
in shove after shove
of broken sweetness.

A tumble of auburn crumbs,
a pouf of powder,
a flirt after the fact
when it has fallen
into leaden memory
of that mindless tryst
between bed and desk.

Failure

I've failed, I've failed, blah blah blah. I can flagellate myself over my absence, or I can acknowledge it and move on.

Moving on...this is draft 1.5. Draft 1 was written in the past 10 minutes or so.

Shortcut

On the side of St. Matthew's where there is no stained glass,
only a shortcut for a lunchtime fix, of one kind or another,
I see the man in plaid flannel who asks me,
twice, for change.

He is a piece of creation, no more or less than
that weed, unrooted, clenched on the alley brick,
but I deny my money for fear of opening my purse.
I say "Sorry" and make my face say the same,
after a quick rehearsal in my mind. I am sorry.
I do not say "God bless you."
This is on me. Why make him hate God?

I mull over going back, after reaching safety
like a child at tag at his temporary home. I do not
go back this time. This willfulness is grace,
however ungraceful/ That I can walk, and speak,
and sit at my Dell fixing grammar for dollars
or typing this poem on the clock.
Maybe I should rejoice this grace. I do not care to.

Quick one

I'm writing a good bit; it's getting here that's the problem. Here's one as a sort of token.

Traveler’s Checklist

Tight rolls of stores in the satchel,
chosen for light. Dark covers
to ward against dirt and wear,
all the living parts scrubbed and draped.
Soft support for making tracks.
Loose bands to bind. Clean lenses,
clear eyes, uptilted chin
to kiss the new day.

Draft horse

This is one I scribbled in the car somewhere on Massachusetts Avenue NW. I just made a few changes, partly based on my inability to read a good bit of my own scrawl. It's nowhere near "finished"--maybe not even enough to call a draft.

Cockatiel

O Toni! It was under
your hat all along
and on the tip of
the bitten-off glove
the bright bird you wore
to impress her

Your bright companion has your love
10 chunks of your young hopes
and your heart in
your hat and

wound in your half-caste
java hair
for safety
your young banned dreams

Another from yesterday

I wrote some of these down while having dinner between work and choir practice. I did not have tepid soup.

Misery is a tepid soup that yet sustains,
cruel gruel and not-quite-cold comfort.
Familiar as a mole, or the farting cat
who sleeps nightly on your chest,
you can't chase it because it'll double back,
dog you, lick your heels
with its version of a kiss. You've worn
the shape of your body into these jeans,
and even as they tear, you feel
their rough grasp on your thighs.

That "rough" is definitely not the right word. I have tried "stiff" and "cold" and "cool" and none is right. I want that feeling (and sound) of a tough fabric that gives but is not entirely relaxed, that sort of holds you together even though it's not a cuddly embrace.

I guess I haven't been directed

I've been doing some writing, but I haven't gotten it onto the blog. I'll try to do better.

Arcane Diner (first draft)

The sign of the ketchup,
bottle upended on bottle,
means renewal by a kiss. Vinyl
is eternal. Whose jawbone
made that coffee cup?
Its pores are yours, a hard thing
that stains and weeps
even as course after course of
paper-capped kids rush to make
everything look clean.

Angry

I'm sorry. I'm having some kind of posting problems tonight--I can't get this damn poem to single-space to save my life. The hell with it. At least I wrote it, even though it sucks. Grrrr.

 

Attractive Nuisance

 

He said filling in the pond

would improve the drainage,

would keep the mosquitoes down.

What did I know?

He was the man.

When it was done, we had

a great gray plain, suitable for foursquare

or hopscotch. Perhaps a place to park

his motorcycle, if he hadn’t taken it.

When nature reclaims this tract,

when this empty house and its kin

are gone, will some tortoise wander back,

looking for water? Will some blind osprey,

following tradition,

dive into the still, hard lake?