Sidewalks stretch out;
perfectly paved concrete
spanning the length of the road
smooth
until suddenly it cracks
and your life
breaks open.

 

Crisp fall mornings, leaves
blanketing the yard, a fire glowing;
your grown daughter
two again, curling by your side, or posing
in the backyard, skipping rope on the sidewalk
bordering the building, sitting on a tree stump
looking at the cars as they pass; she was so willing
to do what you wanted, until
she wasn’t. The long cool stretch of the pool
in summer, blue going on forever; summer nights,
waking up in the dark, cool sheets wrapping
hot bodies; the skyline of a dead city rising
as I cross the bridge, imagining
a life within.

Saturday morning in December

waking up to the disarray of my life:

empty cereal bowls, milk souring, potato chip crumbs

in my bed, pill bottles, caps off;

another night of frantically searching for something

in the middle of my life, not knowing where to find it.  My brain

atrophies like my students who are all shuffling along, unaware

of their lives, not caring.  The people in charge

also checked out, searching for ways to make things easier, to forget what is before them,

what might come

next.

---

I long for a world
where everything is black and white,
simple.  Like a math equation
where no matter how you figured
it still added up to something
you could understand.  Now everything
is a blur, looking through smudged glasses;
or a Christmas tree from far away, eyes squinting, it is all
a blob of color and you can’t see
what’s in front of you.
You know by the look
on someone’s face that you got it all wrong.
You misinterpreted the signs, thinking
the flash of yellow meant stop until
somebody behind you slammed you
into someone else, someone
you don’t want to be.

 

the letters arrived
like a surprise: somebody’s recognizable
scrawl, your best friend’s scribbling resonating
through the years, the loopy pink ink
never fading.  Or maybe your mother
reminding you to be wary,
to watch where you were going,

look out for where you might

unexpectedly end up.  A former lover once

from jail, detailing the monotony
of his choices, taking him

where he didn’t want

to be.  Years later you scan the pages

hoping they might show you

where to go.

 

morning black; my porch
light flickers, wavering
then steady; my lawn
littered with the dead;
the old maple
naked and bare, its arms stretching
willingly
into the obsidian dark.

of what the day might
bring: the rumpled sheets,
the dirty laundry
in a heap on the floor;
yesterday somehow already
accumulating, cluttering
what remains. How quickly
it all adds up, bits and pieces of your life–
a stained-glass music box, shattering,
its contents overflowing, winter,
rising from the dark.

the holiday side dishes
that no one wanted: the green-bean casserole that Stella made
languishes, looking limp and lipid;
a former lover who left
you longing for more;
the gray Buick which sputtered finally out
on the side of the highway, the still-dark morning
a blur, leaving you stranded
on the side of the road, waiting
for your life to begin.

 

Instead of flowers
I place small stones
on my father’s grave, his plot of land
shared with people
I never knew: my great-grandmother and
grandfather, side by side; flowers swept away
each month by groundskeepers, but
the small stones remain.
I sometimes imagine
occupying that remaining
space beside my father
reserved for someone else
who might find comfort there
years down the line.

 

The detritus of our lives
accumulates: the high-heeled
leapord-spotted, open-toed shoes
bought for a party that could never
live up to what I wanted
perched in the corner,
still waiting; laundry unfolded,
stuffed into drawers that never quite close;
books unread; pill bottles uncapped, some
medication needed to soothe
whatever might remain, whatever will take me
from one day to the next.