Poem: September 30, 2019

Simple Math

Every moment I spend
not thinking my own
thoughts is a subtraction.
If I am watching TV
or scrolling the news or
filtering the already
filtered world into my
cup, I am less than I
could be if I were to
take a walk, paint a wall,
write a poem, cook
a meal, place my own
hands upon the world.
I am divided daily
through screens and all
the stories around me-
the posts and broadcasts,
the updates and live streams,
and I feel, of course I feel
the me in me responding,
but I am a fraction of
myself when I accumulate,
consume, accrue. While
I am whole when I create,
and exponentially so.

Poem: September 29, 2019

Original Sin

Imagine a country
in which everyone
is free from want,

and therefore, free
of jealousy, where
no impulse is bad

because everyone
cares for everyone
else, just as they

do for themselves,
and so there have
never been rules,

no expectations
about how you are
to be, who you may

love, how your
life is valued. How
you look could

never be equated
to who you are,
could never be a

definition, and what
you do with your
hands, your mind,

your voice and eyes,
could never be other
than what you do,

and never less than
what others do.
Imagine a country

with space enough
for every truth and
every version of

truth, and every
vision, every unique
and self-satisfying

version of the good
life in which all
things are beautiful,

everything is valued,
and we all find it
easy to say I value 

this because it is 
yours,  it is what you 
value and love, and 

you are what I value 
and love. Imagine a
place, free from

comparison, free from
limitation, where
everyone can taste

their own sweet apples
and relax in their
beautiful garden, happy,

unburdened. Imagine
how this is brought
down by a single rule.

Poem: September 28, 2019

Civil Discourse, 2019

So easy to fear the consequences
of your own voice. Say something,
stand for anything in public, with
conviction, in a meeting, or worse,
on the web, and you invite another
point of view to come at you like
a bulldozer, not so much a civil
conversation as a counter strike,
and it's not even that you lack
confidence in your own ideas, or
that you are concerned that you
are wrong or ill-equipped to carry
out a persuasive and well-reasoned
argument. It's that persuasive and
well-reasoned arguments take so
much time and rarely seem either
persuasive or well-reasoned to
the people who have taken your
claim as a windmill to tilt at, an
occasion to stamp out the ugliness
they see. And it's so easy to be
misinformed, and it's so easy to be
hateful, and all of us are defending
something larger than ourselves,
some bigger picture, some way of
life, some victim in all of this, or
the banner of a revolution, or the
integrity of an institution. All of us
with megaphones, all prepared to
use them, except that using them
means taking sides and notching up
the volume, and laying out truths
that no matter how truthful, really
come down to how and when we
were raised, and you know they will
be one day used against us, backward
evidence that never changes, even
if we do, and so our voices become
the terrible storms that leave us
stranded from one another, roaring
and whipping and making sure we
are unable to be heard when it counts.

Poem: September 27, 2019

Merrily, Merrily, Merrily, Merrily

Solipsism- noun- the view or theory that 
the self is all that can be known to exist.

I think a solipsist
must, by definition,
also be an optimist

since every good thing
would be your gift
to yourself, evidence,

a manifestation of the
good inside you, what
you love about yourself-

a child laughs, you
did that, the sun rises
and is orange and glows

because you glow,
the magnificence of sex
is your magnificence-

and every bad thing
becomes a statement
of faith, since you

could only make what
you could overcome,
what you could have

undone. Every bad thing
becomes a puzzle, a
type of exercise, a way

to know yourself, and
even death cannot be if
you are a solipsist, since

death is other, and even
in the chaos and the
darkness of sleep, you

continue on, finding
strange ways backward
and forward, passing more

easily through yourself,
so if anything, death
becomes an open door.

Poem: September 26, 2019

The Odyssey

What can anyone do fifteen years after
falling in love, an event on the scale of
war or natural disaster, in which young
lovers are thrown out of control, lost
to cosmic forces, tossed about and left
to act like lunatics, consumed with a
mighty purpose, making mighty claims,
being brought low with uncertainty and
weeping into the winds, every word as
critical, as colossal as it was, and every
moment together some undiscovered
country, a narrow map and shifting X.
Heroes return from these adventures,
and, let's be honest, they are changed,
but as difficult as it is to settle in, as
difficult as it is to recover themselves,
home finds its way into their lives in
the form of schedules and comforts, in
old habits and recovered possessions,
but even fifteen years later, the memory
of one's own helplessness and heroics
in the face of the only one great thing
that mattered can feel like a purpose lost,
can feel like dusty mythology, can cause
a person, now safely settled, to wonder
if they've become a disappointment.

Poem: September 25, 2019

Proof

If there isn't a god, which
(let's face it) is a proposition
that modern life has made
increasingly easy to accept,
given the advances of science,
and the normalization of secular
thought, of humanism, and our
love of moral ambiguity and our
desensitization to evil and the
horrors of people generally
and the many awful messes that
we have made across the planet,
and our stated respect for any
and all points of view, and our
repeated failure to raise our own
standards which does anything
but argue for any kind of plan,
purpose, or the presence of
a big-T Truth, and blah, blah, blah.

If there isn't a god, whether
formed in some image we would
recognize or not, whether in the
form of light or of love or anger,
whether intimate and personal or
ambivalent and disengaged, or
whether mighty and omnipotent
or a whisper in the stillness,
whether omniscient and ordered
or chaotic and capricious, if, if.

If there isn't a god, then in times
of crisis when the car we are
driving jumps into a dead spin
across three lanes of traffic or
when our definition of love has
just walked out the door or
when we realize the terrible and
guaranteed consequences of our
own careless decisions, in these
slashing razorblades of our lives,
who are we praying to for hope,
for safety, for justice and mercy?

If there isn't a god, then why
can we imagine perfection, and
why can we see our helplessness
to achieve it, and why do we ache
for worlds beyond the one we know?
Why do we tell so many stories
about wardrobe portals and rabbit
holes and gated cities in the sky?
What is the point of our comparisons,
and what are we comparing to?

If there isn't a god, then what
are we feeling when cool water
washes over our skin, or when, in
the dark edges of sleep, we hear
thunder rolling in the distance,
or when we press our ear to a child
or a lover's chest and hear the echo
of our own hearts? What are we
feeling, when we know that those
we've lost, still visit and fill our
spaces? What, I ask, if not god?

Poem: September 24, 2019

Things I Wouldn't Want to Do Naked

- Deep fry a turkey.
- Lose a snowball fight.
- Slide into third.
- Accept an award.
- Run a marathon.
- Sit for a family photo.
- Pick up a child at school.
- Prune holly bushes.
- Use a gas station restroom.
- Make s'mores.
- Attend a funeral.
- Spill hot coffee.
- Attend a father-daughter dance.
- Do lunges and crunches at the gym.
- Weed the front flower beds.
- Use a lathe.
- Breakdance.
- Dice habanero peppers.
- Play ice hockey.
- Hike a snap under center.
- Use an ice scraper.
- Take a pizza out of the oven.
- Encounter a porcupine.
- Climb through a window.
- Defend a soccer goal against a penalty kick.
- Skateboard.
- Perform any of Shakespeare's tragedies.
- Charm snakes.
- Perform in a marching band.
- Give a wedding toast.
- Work in a LEGO factory.
- Play the bongos.
- Move furniture.
- Teach a Sunday School class.

Poem: September 23, 2019

Guilt

Looking past the mess of this world
requires a certain kind of vision, and
tuning out the noise requires a filter
of near-magical quality. There can be
no stillness here when everyone is
a hustler, everyone vibrates, everyone
stands on their corner proclaiming
the end of times. We are all prophets.
We all have corners. We have all been
called to call upon each other to do
something. Aren't there wars to fight
and fires to put out? Aren't the least
of us still suffering? Aren't we less
if we are uninformed and unoffended?
Isn't a sense of urgency our solemn
responsibility to create and to sustain?
How else can we claim to be good
stewards of our home, the keepers
of our brothers. Imagine our guilt if
we fail to be part of the solution, if
we bask idly in the sun and read a
poem, if we dance together in the
kitchen before dinner, if we shuffle
a deck of cards and deal out a hand
of euchre. Imagine our shame, to still
find joy with all this panicking to do.

Poem: September 22, 2019

Lullaby

Listen and I will sing to you,
something intimate and meant
to soothe, some song I know
that reminds me of you now,
here, in this moment, exclusive
to you. I will hum and I will
croon, in the dark of this quiet
room, I will sing to you to still
your mind and whisper tunes
to slow your heart, to even your
breath. I will sing to you about
homecoming and the full, white
moon, and in low tones, I will
sing about you- your eyes in
the morning, your smiles in the
afternoon- and about all of the
places you will one day go, and
all of the ways you will find to
get there, and all of the many
truths you will know, because,
you know, I had the chance to
hold you near and sing to you.

Poem: September 21, 2019

Blessings

Today was full of simple
and scattered pleasures:

Waking to find Sophie
already up.

Hearing Sophia and Ella
laughing together.

The smell of pancakes
and bacon

and the clatter of pans.

Dad waiting for me on
the porch.

Cutting cleats and shelves
for the basement with Dad,

and learning how to
cut the cleats at an angle
to make them disappear.

Painting the basement
walls with Riley,

cutting in the trim, sealing
gaps with painters caulk,

and admiring the
transformation that comes
with the gloss of paint,

the straight line where two
colors meet.

Trimming the fat from
a pork loin, and combining
flavors without a recipe-
apple cider vinegar, cumin,
bacon fat and beer.

The slow lingering smell
of the roast throughout
the day.

Showering away dust and
sweat. Lather.

Scrubbing the paint from
my knuckles and fingernails.

Listening to Bob Dylan and
Johnny Cash.

Gathering with my whole
family- Mom and Dad,
Kristen and Darrin, the kids.

Talking about the trip we
will take next Summer to
Paris and Rome.

Enjoying each item on
everyone's separate list.

Slow-sipping a rye Manhattan,
then uncorking the bottle
of red wine.

Eating pork tacos with
coleslaw and pickled red onion,
tomatoes and a squeeze of lime.

Settling in to watch the Irish
struggle, but not too much,
against another top ten team.

Then tallying the results from
this week's college picks,

no longer in first, but still
not in last.

Poem: September 20, 2019

Snack Mix

There is a mindlessness to snack mix,
the way we can put it away by the
fistful, our hands making the circuit
between bowl and mouth, scooping
up whole mountains, whole pillars
of salt, and you would think, therefore,
that you couldn't get such a thing
wrong, simple consumption without
any form of pause button, easy enough
to mix yourself ahead of Saturdays
or holiday parties, since each element
comes from the same family of salted
grain and nut, but, in fact, you can tell
when it's not right: when the flake of
the cheese cracker goes unmatched by
the density of a peanut, or when you
get too much pretzel and not enough
toasted cereal, or when someone has
picked out all of the rye wafers, or
worse, has added something sweet
like chocolate or dried cranberries. All
of which will wake you up and draw
your mind away from the football
game or cartoon marathon, and send
you searching the bowl, frown on
your face, like some sort of culinary
crime scene investigator. Yep, you
say, pulling out your notepad and
poking the bowl with the tip of your
pencil, Snack mix is like air. You'll
only notice it when something's wrong.

Poem: September 19, 2019

Dissonance

Mid-September and it's still too warm
to spend any time outside, kicking
leaves or resting feet up by the fire,
but we have lit the autumn candles,
so pumpkin spice, apple, cinnamon
fill the living room and kitchen, and
chili and tomato soup are on the menu
again, even if the trees are August-
green and the daisies grow thick in
the back garden. I pass my denim
jacket, hanging on the hook since
April, and shake my head and try to
squint away the dissonance, this
collective self-hypnosis, this legacy
delusion, born from a remembered
climate or clever marketing or our
modern impatience. We feel it, I know.
We feel the harvest coming like a
flirtation. We smell the feast on
the wind. We race to close the distance
between ourselves and a lover we
remember as colorful and exotic,
someone to wrap around ourselves.
We force ourselves to imagine the joy
of fall is already at the door, and we
close the pools and hang the red
and orange decorations, even though
it is still 85 degrees and mostly sunny,
because we have forgotten how to wait.

Poem: September 18, 2019

The Things I Do For You

You might not understand this, not being
inclined to think this way, but literally
everything I do to help around the house
is, in my mind, an act of love. When I
empty the dishwasher, that is an act of
love. When I roll the garbage bin back
from the curb, that is an act of love.
Folding laundry, vacuuming the floor,
scrubbing the toilet. All of these are acts
of love, and without love, I doubt that I
would do them. Without love, I would
wade through the piles of trash upon the
floor. Without love, the sinks would clog
and forever remain in that state. Without
love, our bed would go unmade. The
making of the bed, especially, for me
is a particularly meaningful act of love.

Poem: September 17, 2019

Mission Statement

All I want to do is use
my hands to build a better
place, a garden, a library,
an airy and safe space that
can inspire everyone to
breathe and roll up their
sleeves and build an even
better place beside mine
and on top of mine. I want
my hands to lay foundation.

And to use my voice to
paint promises that others
love and want to help to
keep. I want to sing a song
that invites all harmonies,
that brings forth visions
and variations on visions,
that is as muscular as an
anthem and as hopeful as
a hymn, that fills spaces.

And to use my eyes to see
everyone as myself, near
as a reflection, closer even,
an opportunity to love and
understand, to grow and to
become wise. I want my
eyes to open doors and
offer solace, to connect
myself like tissue, to throw
a line and feel it tugging.

Poem: September 16, 2019

Profession

I like a room full
of teachers, on a
Monday when
the rain is falling
on the parking lot
an hour after work,
so hard you can
almost hear it, and
everyone is here,
really, happily here,
talking about kids
because kids are
interesting, and
talking about the
ways we learn
because learning
is complex. I like
to see how one
teacher will circle
an idea on paper
and connect it with
a story from first
period, how others
nod, furrow brows,
smile in sudden
recognition. I like
sharing this serious
work, born out of
a deep human joy.

Poem: September 15, 2019

Scheduling Conflict

I keep missing you because
you are on a different schedule,
every other week home, and even
then, you work nights and get in
long after I am in bed, and I
am up at four-thirty, and out
the door well before you ever
wake up, so I keep missing you.

I keep missing you because
you are away at college and
becoming who you are and
thinking about different things
than I am thinking about, looking
up and out while I look in and
down, and it's easy to forget to ask
after you when you are out of town,
and therefore, I keep missing you.

I keep missing you because
you seem to be busier than you
ever were before, out in the world
with your new friends and a dozen
after school activities that eat into
the evening like your FaceTime
conversations behind closed doors, and
homework, of course, which you know
how to do, so I keep missing you.

I keep missing you because
we are both very important and
successful and the things we do cross
one another less and less frequently,
and pull us away from the house, so
that when you have a meeting, I have
a conference, and so I hear about your
good work in passing and often from
others, while I keep missing you.

Poem: September 14, 2019

Some Ways I Don't Want You To Teach

Don't teach like a drill sergeant, all straight
lines and rules. Don't teach like anything is
simple or obvious or fits in a spreadsheet.

Don't teach like a first responder, finger on
the panic button, your only purpose to find
and put out fires. Try not to put out fires.

Don't teach like a fulcrum, balancing one
side against the other. You aren't a scale.
Don't fall in love with your answer keys.

Don't teach like a rocket, locked on a target,
racing mindlessly along a narrow path. Don't
be the shortest distance between two points.

Don't teach like the business world, guided
by a bottom line. Don't trust the market, or
believe that it is fair. Don't sell off the rack.

Don't teach like a commercial. Don't sell
yourself as a solution to be desired or an
idea to become. Don't define a kid's needs.

Poem: September 13, 2019

Reruns

Watching Friends all these years later,
and, of course, I can see the jokes coming.
I'm stuck in an ATM vestibule with Jill Goodacre!
All of that stuff still cracks me up, but it's not
why I am watching. I've probably watch them
enough. I like this window back to my twenties,
to the difficult racing need to understand
the adult world, to get my hands around love,
to make so many mistakes and believe that
somehow, they are leading me somewhere,
to believe that I can find my way through
uncertainty, to be clearly defined, to know
the simple answer and matter in this life. I like
the irony that my memory of that time is
just as contrived, just as much a performance,
as the lives that play out in Central Perk and
Monica's apartment. I like looking through time
and through the fourth wall to see how much
of what we believe is important passes out
of fashion, is by necessity, forgotten. I like
the band-collared shirts and answering machine
tapes. I like the giant coffee cups and ugly,
naked guy. I like the nostalgia of near misses,
and all of that unsettled potential. I like the ties
and big jackets, something I suppose we grew
into, and I like it when hilarity ensues. I like
that I can remember when pain was common
and when every choice, so close, seemed personal.

Poem: September 12, 2019

For Each Child

Shine because you shine,
all energy and talent,

a pulse that must pulse,

a form of love, gathered
and set in motion,

a god in your own right,
and here, right here, now,

to only be as you will be,

only shine as you will shine,
and in the darkness, shine bright.

Poem: September 11, 2019

Let's Get A Few Things Straight

If you think you can say something true,
really true, about anyone, you're wrong.
I say this, and know it to be true.

Everyone, everyone is responsible for our
messy world with its crusty failures and
injustices and all the storms that gather.

The path to happiness is a hard conversation,
the deep sacrifice, the compromise, the
after-trauma of unclenching your fist.

Society is just noise, a form of collective
masturbation, gatherings of egos and
pleasure centers. There are no answers there.

There is beauty to be found everyday, red
ball suns on the horizon, or fireflies,
blinking like green eyes in the night.

Truth is wide and not narrow, inclusive,
not limited to some. We all get it right.
We all get it wrong. Truth has no container,

cannot be outlined, cannot be written down.

Poem: September 10, 2019

Percival Sherlock, My Cat

Around five AM on weekday mornings,
after my shower and after I've dressed
myself for work by the dim, secondary
light of the closet, I finally arrive, shoes
in hand, to this moment in which I sit
on the corner of the bed and find that
you are there, reliably there, waiting
for me to scratch behind your pointed
ears, back and around and under your
chin, until you flop down, your head
hanging over the edge, leaving dots of
cat drool and totally relaxed and limp
while I run my hand gently over the
length of your body, down to the very
tip of your tail that flicks a slow and
contented flick, and I flatten you like
a pillow, I smooth you like a blanket,
I roll you out like dough, imagining I
am easing you into the day, as if this
were some long-standing agreement,
some contract I had signed, some soft
rite that I observe with devotion even
though it takes no more than a couple
of minutes, and ends when you say it
does- if I stop too soon, you bite, and
if I go too long, you bite harder- so I
am careful to pay attention to the cues,
the width of your eyes, the slapping
of your tail, I get it, we all have lines
that we draw, limited patience. It's no
wonder people used to worship cats.

Poem: September 9, 2019

Autumn Music

is the music that makes you feel
the ache you feel when you are
awake enough to realize that
everything good, by necessity,
dies, that there are lies to fall
in love with and seconds that
are perfect because they pass.
Autumn music is all orange and
red guitars and brown bass drums
and wicked lyrics that twist you
around, that sound like a sneer
and feel like a smile and make
you believe that your life is
sexiest at the edges, on the end
of your fingertips, in the tiny
electricity of a twitch. Autumn
music makes the claim that
your life is a flame that burns
to make you happy as it burns
to burn you down because any
other outcome would leave you
meaningless, would lose itself
in time, would fail to cut deep
enough to make an impression,
leave a scar, but one really good
lick, one really good line about
our distances closing, our love
of our own tempting horizons
becoming compressed into stone,
into thick air, immediate and
hard, something to scratch your
knuckles on: smoke and cold
denim, the crunch of dead leaves,
green-grey eyes, bourbon, saliva.
One song that wails all of this
and hits you in the stomach with
a wish, and I'm wrapped in primal
drumming, a heartbeat, a tap
on a lover's shoulder, the world,
and I can only pray for the good
sense to stay here, clutching at
the earth, split open, pressed
against a deep and crumbling love.

Poem: September 8, 2019

Let Me Take Care Of That For You

Let me take care of that for you.
Let me fill that cup. Let me rub
away that dust. Let me cook up
something spicy and steaming
and hot to the touch. Let me go
ahead and serve you something
tender and falling from the bone,
something salty and savory to
tempt your tongue. Let me clear
you some space, make a little bit
of room, so you can spread out.
Let me loosen what's too tight.
Let me dampen what's too bright.
Let me cool you down just so,
just enough to be comfortable,
just a little more, just a notch,
just a breath. Let me get that door,
slide it open for you, and hum
you a song, low and flowing like
a bath. Let me hover here like a
shadow. Let me hold you like a
pillow. Let me linger like fingers
running through your hair. Let me
be the thing you tilt yourself into.

Poem: September 7, 2019

Circles

Fifty-one, yes, undeniably so, and still
I am the boy who wants to sing loud,
who cannot settle his legs and hands,
who interrupts and never finishes his

sentences so much as he weaves them
into some new stopless thought since
inside, where it counts, I'm still a boy
who wants to show off and who hates

to be judged, the boy who is never
bored because he is always recovering
from boredom, bouncing off of what
would stick to me and be so boring!

I am still the boy who falls in love with
everything, who is sentimental about
the relics and and crevices of his life,
who doesn't want to let anything go.

Here, inside my surfaces, I am the boy
who aches to hear certain words echo:
charming, intelligent, adorable, deep.
Who dreams to be tattooed with them.

Unchanged, I see through the film of
this passing world, but cannot be free
of it. I am the boy who wants to follow
all the rules in a world in which no

rules exist. All bravado, this boy,
a moth for joy, attracted to himself,
still the boy who wants to be the best
but never compared to anything else,

a superlative, a truism, circular logic,
a boy, a cosmos, happily alone and
crowded, one kid too full of voices,
a hopeful and rudderless engine. I look

in the mirror and see the boy who returns
to the mirror again and again, so drawn
to all the surfaces he ever remembers
touching, even as they swirl away.

Poem: September 6, 2019

Two-Sided Mirror

When I was in the classroom, teaching full-time,
I would dream of all the ways I could fail at
teaching: walking into class unprepared, without
my copies, without a plan. Or failing to resolve
a conflict, stop a fight, calm an angry kid, or
God forbid, letting the whole mess of them run
amuck while I search for the book that was right
here, and the principal shaking her head from the
doorway, and every student a different form of
interruption, which never happened, of course,
at least not in that way or to that extent. I was
competent enough. And now, ten years removed
from the classroom, when I dream about teaching,
I am brilliant and well-loved. An inspiration to all.

Poem: September 5, 2019

For Dirck

It's good to be old friends with nothing
on the agenda, no product to sell, no
need to persuade. Just a long stretch
of time, a long river that wears away
the edges, a way of floating past all
the messes, or letting them pass by us.
This is the kindest kind of habit as
we fiddle about the kitchen for an hour
or two, pouring Manhattans with dark
Luxardo cherries and Martinis with
pickled okra for one another, trading
the pieces of the world- books, poetry,
a song or an interview we heard on NPR-
the pieces we've picked up and saved
for the spaces between turns rolling
the Trivial Pursuit dice. And isn't this
nice, isn't this good? If this is where
we've arrived, at the shore of our old
age, with still a nice stretch of stillness
in which to calcify and gather our moss,
then I am happy to be here with you,
the two of us, going nowhere, at least
nowhere in particular, comfortable and
slow and free to be both foolish and wise.

Poem: September 4, 2019

Narrow

To choose an expertise is to step into a trap,
to place one's tender ankle between the metal jaws,
to walk willingly without a buddy into the riptide
and be dragged away from the shallow waters where
people dip their toes, build their castles, and play.

Too far out on the ends of the limbs, the experts
are separated from the possibility of bark, from
the shifting scents of forest, from the pleasure of
many seats, many arms, many nests. The experts
have only thin twigs, one choice: stay put or fly.

Poem: September 3, 2019

Fantasy Football

I know I spend too
much time sitting here, but
on Saturdays in September I like
to imagine how it might feel to line up
on the outside edge of the line of scrimmage,
and in perfect time with the cadence, leap forward,
sprinting twenty yards, then cutting inside, just as the ball
arrives, and I pull it tight into the cradle of my arms, never breaking
stride, picking up a block, stutter-stepping right, turning on
a dime, until I find the sideline and a straight green
open path, so fast, everything else is my shadow
and bright blue sky and the mosaic of the
stands, and my body, a machine, all
efficiency and power, not even
out of breath, a joyous
explosion, a gift.

Poem: September 2, 2019

Anxiety

I know when I haven't been
to the gym in a while that
it's only a matter of time
before I have to gulp down
deep breaths at my desk,
before I feel that vague
aching desire to stretch out
of my clutched skin and
pry open my clenched jaw
and actually activate the
pulsing place inside my
skull that feels capable of
shooting real lasers through
my eyes and laying waste
to my immediate vicinity.
When it hits, I exhaust
myself with all this inward
flexing, this tightening of
the straps that hold me to
my tasks, my self-designed
whipping post, my galley.
I am holding all this potential
energy in place, wrapping
myself like an iron suit
around the scream, the punch,
the grenade, humming with
electricity, shaking on the
surface like a tremor, so
stupid, I know. The bottle
has been shaken. Just go
to the Y, hit the machine
and pop open the top!

Poem: September 1, 2019

French Lick, Indiana

Here we are again,
diving the late summer
roads to Labor Day

in French Lick, Indiana
and the condo on the hill.
Small, really, for all of us

but a nice way to contain
the games and lunches
and drinking, to celebrate

a couple of birthdays.
And we will swim and
shop the corridors,

the novelty stores in
the big hotels, like we
do every year- hats, bitters

music boxes and books.
And we'll eat too much
and drink cocktails

and spend too much
time ordering our days,
traveling in groups.

And the kids will insist
on ice cream from
the shop in the West Baden

which we will eat on
the sweeping green porches,
creaking the rocking chairs.

And someone will want
to walk in the gardens,
and the sun will be hot,

but we will walk until
we find ourselves taking
photos by the fountain,.

Every year, photos
by the fountain, on loungers
under the dome, so

predictable and cozy
like a habit, a long inward
sigh, a long memory

that spans across years,
always saying goodbye
to summer, always

walking the same hill,
always shuffling the same
cards around the table.