sipping vodka

putting off things that

you will never do

repairs that need to be done

summer looming yet

almost over

weeks that rush

by. years pass.

That man is short

and his beard is gray;

he drowns himself

holding what is left

of his life. That silver

dime is worthless now.

Driving a cab through dark and snowy

nights, he celebrates

other people’s lives: a new year

filled with glitter, girls.

The years are lost no matter

how he tries to rewrite them. All versions

lead him here

driving through the dark.

The hibiscus
flowers every year
late, almost July
before the buds begin
forming in clusters, teasing
like a lover
waiting to open. Always late
but still
the star of the show

Impulsive
drunk dials
never end
well. One person
is always left
wanting some
thing, some quick
fix, a second
chance. Blind
by yet another
gin and tonic
the summer night
stretching into
dawn.

Potted meat
and powdered milk
fruit was too expensive
cheap off-brand bags in bulk
of corn curls that turned
your fingers orange.
Trailing the grocery aisles
behind your father who was
prudent and aware
of every nickel and dime.

You stare at a screen, empty

faces look back at you: one student is still

in bed curled around

a cat, one boy sticks his hand

down his pants, another shows up

without a shirt, writes,

gone to take a dump

brb.

One moment please

you will be connected

presented with

an array of choices

you don’t want to make

press option one

and another

voice, canned and empty.

Option two offers

what looks to you

–from your living room couch

your cats clamoring

all over you–

like something you don’t want

could never have. Your fingers

tap at little buttons on the screen fat

and heavy, you remain

invisible, unseen.

The places that scare you

are unannounced

the usual array

of options

the dark corner

of an alley

a party

filled with happy glittery

people in red dresses

with sequins, tight

bodies, going somewhere

you will never be.

Have someone else                                                                                                                            cut it, scissors sharp, razor ready,

who knows what will happen, how it will turn out

what you will look like far into the future,

where will you be.

My dreams

are snippets, fragments

of sound.

My brother envelops me

and stays, his arms

heavy on my shoulders.

My mother, lost

in a car sits

in front of my house

in her bathrobe. In the morning

we meet at my father’s grave, my mother and I

abandon my brother walking down

the wide road which curves around

and goes nowhere.