my life already is overrun

with cats.  Harry jumps on my back

before my morning coffee

whining for something –attention, or food.

He wants to know that I love him best, that I love

him still.  Callie –eight weeks old –at a closed door

ready to pounce when I open it. She has been spayed, has the stitches

to prove it.  Harry is not fond of the interloper, or me

when I bring her home after years of being alone

like me.  Some things just don’t mix, we are tempting

the hands of fate and this poem is crap.

the purple pink cauliflower
hydrangeas droop
in the late morning
heat, Disappointed with what
was, what might be.

We like to think
our mistakes are limited, finite. That we are offered
or allowed a certain number and when we reach
that we are free to whatever poor
choices that lie before us –things we don’t
hesitate about, or give a passing
glance. We only act
taking what is, what will be,

the yard covered in stone
creatures, benches, broken
down goddesses, the Virgin
Mary palms up, one hand chipped
and cracked. He sat in the corner always
a fire going no matter
the season, the radio
in the background reverberating
through the neighborhood that he was
always the talk of.

Your fears were simple long ago, easily
identifiable: the shape that moved
in the corner of your room late at night;
the spider in the basement where your mother
sent you late summer afternoons to bring up
the basket of laundry, your lives hiding somewhere
in the still-warm clothes; the long walk to school
in winter months when it was still dark. At least
then you could imagine, you might
predict what would hit you when you turned
the corner too fast on your bike, careening
into concrete, leaving you there waiting
for what comes next.

There are no tricks, no secrets
you don’t know, no sleight of hand,
no distraction forcing you to see
something else like a voice calling
Look here! Look here! Try as you might
to ignore it, you look away
for a second and when you look back
what was once there
is gone, vanished
into thin air.

Your life settles around you
a train from long ago
whistling through town promising
something you will never have; the plane
that seemed forever stuck on the runway
the passengers beside and behind you
complaining; the stale angry air
embraces you like a lover
once again taking you back
in her arms.

Your life settles around you
a train from long ago
whistling through town promising
something you will never have; the plane
that seemed forever stuck on the runway
the passengers beside and behind you
complaining; the stale angry air
embraces you like a lover
once again taking you back
in her arms.

You live in a time
where everything is obsolete
the bus you wait for is long gone
or rumbles by with a lone passenger
face pressed against the glass looking
for some sign of recognition out the window;
the coins in his pocket buy very little, the phone
calls he wants to make no longer exist, the empty
red booth a relic of a different time.                                                                                     Everyone stumbles the city
streets looking down isolated
from everything that is around them, anything                                                                               that might touch who they are,
who they will never be.

Other people’s children are always frozen

in time, glimpses of birthday parties or sleepovers

or school talent shows; someone else’s little girl

belting out a song; you always standing in the back

not knowing or appreciating what was, what might

come; just caught up in the detritus of your own life

biding time; waiting for it to be over.  But it is always there

lurking around the corner . . .Mornings in summertime still come

early, the alarm blaring in your ear