Poem: May 11, 2019

Pennies

Grandpa saved pennies in Mason jars
in the bottom cabinet of the sideboard,
a habit born of the depression.

When we spent the night, we kids would
take the pennies out like treasure, dump them
clattering on the table, and sort them

by date, by mint, identifying Ds and Ss
among the stacks we formed like towers,
separating the wheat and steel pennies

that came from the war. We didn't think
about the distances they'd traveled,
the pockets, the people they'd touched.

We didn't think about what these pennies
had been exchanged for, what they'd purchased,
the shaving brushes or shoe horns, the coffee

cans filled with nails, the handkerchiefs.
We thought about how rich Grandpa must be,
the weight of pennies dripping through our hands.

Poem: May 10, 2019

Marginalia

Remember when libraries used to be dark?

Deep and winding corridors, caverns really,

with towering walls of shelves and narrow

aisles. Stacks upon stacks, so heavy they say,

that the Indiana University library is still

sinking under their weight. Libraries used

to produce their own atmosphere, a sweet,

earthy smell in the shadows, something

made of leather and pulp and human remains.

Old libraries cast long shadows, were long

shadows themselves. I remember libraries

that felt like the dark forests described 

in children's stories, places to hide inside of,

places with faraway echos and odd noises

hidden behind the next turn, places to decode,

places where much is buried. Imagine those

books, some passing decades between hands. 

Imagine the strange words written in the margins.

Poem: May 9, 2019

Bottom of the Box

I think it is safe to say that
the optimism of the 20th century,
the wonder and giddy anticipation
with which Disney and Sagan
framed the future on the television
consoles in my grandparents'
living rooms, may be in decline.

We've seen thriving markets crash,
and great wars descend into ongoing,
simmering conflict. We've built
a powerful marketplace of lies
and normalized villainy, while
rolling our eyes at any mention
of values. What values? Yours?

The shining cities of the Jetsons
and Tomorrowland, the floating lives
of leisure, the United Nations and
space exploration, have been
replaced with the tribal self-interest
of brand loyalties and slick marketing,
the stark ingenuity of consumerism.

The future is less to be welcomed
than feared, mitigated if we can.
Whole island nations soon to be
ankle deep with worried eyes scanning
the horizon. Our lives increasingly
sold to the cold purposes of machines,
committed in service to a system.

Perhaps it's best that we abandon
the folly of control, watch the chaos
unfold, and let what is be laid low.
After all, the Kennedys and Kings
carried the taste of dust bowls and
Jim Crowe, of trenches and fox holes.
What if they weren't so sure as they had hope?

Poem: May 8, 2019

This Is How Hitler Happened

The goldfish you brought home 

to our apartment from a night out 

at the fair with your mother's parents

swam like mad in its thin plastic bag, 

filled with unnaturally blue water, 

the color of mouthwash or Windex.

There ought to have been some rules 

written into the divorce decree to cover 

situations like this, but there you were, 

smiling and sticky and fascinated at six 

and three, so we dumped our new pet 

into the only workable receptacle I had-

a Lenox crystal bowl that had somehow 

made it into my pile during the dividing. 

Seriously, I didn't expect the creature 

to last. It came from a festival game.

In blue water. We set it in the kitchen

next to the stove with the broken burner. 

We didn't give it a name, and to my 

knowledge,  we never fed it. We certainly 

never went out of our way to purchase 

real fish food that we could shake 

like seasoning into its leaded home. 

When the water evaporated about half-

way down the bowl, I'd run it under the tap, 

unleashing a cloud of filth that would 

eventually settle- a cruel existence 

that lasted a stunning nine months.

I know I could have ended the waiting,

poured the whole mess into the toilet 

or through the disposal during one 

of the long stretches you spent at 

your mother's house, but I was afraid 

to face it, to face you, to explain, and 

I think I needed something to hate.  

At night, alone in the kitchen, I would 

stare into the bowl and ask, "Why 

don't you die?" It's weird that I used 

to think that story was funny.

Poem: May 7, 2019

Bionic

My watch cheerfully tells me the time of day
and reminds me of my upcoming appointments.

My watch suggests I turn left on Lincoln when
I am headed in to work, so I turn left on Lincoln.

My watch tells me it is time to stand up
and I stand until it can tell that have stood.

My watch tells me to take a minute to breathe,
and I breathe deep breaths in time with its tapping.

My watch says I am behind on my steps,
and I step and pace and watch the numbers tick.

My watch interrupts, demands attention like a toddler
pointing out every text and email and tweet.

My watch is concerned that there are storms on the way,
and I feel them rumbling and wait for instructions.

Poem: May 6, 2019

Hermes

The hummingbird flitted into the frame
of the front storm door window
like an actor entering from stage left
and crossing to center stage, then hovered
and exited so quickly that I wondered
if I had seen it at all. After all,
it is rare to see a hummingbird here
in our urban neighborhood, but then
the irises with their purple tongues
are blooming as are the dogwoods
and the columbines. And Leslie
just hung a sign on the front door
that says "Welcome Spring." It's nice
to imagine the hummingbird dispatched
in response, some fleet, winged messenger
who makes his appearance at the beginning
of Act I and sets the mayhem in motion.

Poem: May 5, 2019

Waste Not

My parents still own a VCR

and a handful of tapes one has to rewind.

A small window of found time, a machine

you can hear working.

Mom says, "Why would we get rid of it?

It still works, and the kids like the shows."

It's Winnie the Pooh. The youngest is ten.

But I get it. We like to be prepared

and we tend to fill our spaces.

Dig through the closets and the boxes

stacked high in the garage, and you

are likely to find a lot that has been

left behind- a wooden tennis racket, 45s.

You might find a buckeye that was picked up

off the ground thirty years ago, or the colander

they got as a gift for their wedding.

There are even items that began life

with my grandparents. Survivors. Memories

piled behind closed doors- too good to be let go.