Last evening, like every other evening
I clutched my coffee and ventured familiar roads home.
April’s setting sun pierced the windshield.

Each night, that blinding light appeared
At dusk on this road heading west.
So I did not notice the little bird,

But I did hear the thump.
A plume of blue-gray feathers scattered
Verifying the sad ending my windshield had caused.

As I contemplated this poor bird’s passing
I turned the corner onto my street of canopied trees,
And noted Tom had left out his trash cans again.

Directly across the street, Mrs. Sally,
Dressed in her familiar Muu Muu, dragged a tree branch
That had fallen in the afternoon storm.

Her dearest Joe used to do these things,
His honey-do list sits eternally near his coffee ***
Wistfully, yearning for the touch of his callused fingers.

I often thought of my end, last breath and adieu.
I prefer to pass unknowingly, sleeping.
A warm thought, for me, but not my wife.

Imagine her jabbing me, attempting to wake me,
Her former husband, now lifeless beside her.
How impolite of me, a weekday morning, no less.

She would probably be late to work
Due to my boorish finish
The morning of her big presentation.

No such conclusion would befall me.
I should go suddenly, in my study,
Surrounded by piles of unread books.

Sitting with a cup of coffee warming my hands.
I took mine black and I was often reminded,
When spilt, Coffee leaves a terrible stain.

I arrived home and noticed the leaves,
Seasons were changing,
They needed a good raking.

My wife met me at the door,
Smiled in her embrace,
There was diner with small talk.

As I retired to my study,
Savoring my coffee, staring at my books,
Contemplating what should be read next,

I did not feel the cup slipping from my hand,
Nor hear its crash as it splintered into a million pieces.
My “World’s Best Dad” cup was finished.

Laid out on the floor, I could see
The spatter of coffee across the rug.
Now I’ll admit, coffee does leave a good hard stain.

I glanced at my wife entering the room in a panic
And felt life drain my body,
I could only think to say,

“I know, the coffee… you’ve told me a thousand times.”

I understood I would never marry,
buy a house, have kids,
mow the lawn on Saturday,
wash cars, clean the pool.

I had an atypical plan,
thinking back, for my life:
a wanderer, adventurer or pilgrim
without want of firm roots.

Each destination a chance happening,
an introduction to the unexamined.
Sidewalks, cafes, alleyways, and life
being lived, journaled for remembrance.

The North Country, New York;
Watertown, Carthage, Clayton and Ogdensburg,
strolling their streets dripping
history and memoirs never told.

Lassoing thoughts from wild conversation
with caffeinated coffee shop poets,
struggling with Calvinistic thought streams
and priests in moments of doubt.

My theories in marble.
Gently chiseled with each interaction,
chipped, thoughts evolve
leaving inference among spilt beans.

All memories and dreams mingle.
l hold them gently.
As midnight creeps I’m untethered,
drifting from the shoal once more.


Suddenly I sense wonder:
The Appalachian Trail at Katahdin,
Continental divide at Loveland Pass,
Mount Hood from Pacific Crest.

Have you ever witnessed
views of Mojave’s Kelso Dunes?
Felt the Great Basin’s rainshadow chill,
or contemplated Joshua Trees in prayer?

Often the life of could have been
is more lucid than I am,
kneeling gnarled,
pulling obstinate weeds.

Shallow breath’d and gazing… scanning
my cut grass, clear pool,
a loving wife, adoring children,
my home…

This man,
mind wandering,
acquiesces,
to clarity of thought.

I would have… could have
been that man, that other life,
a Walter Mitty dreaming
a life; mine.

Darling

Bright eyes that call

Like stars in summer skies

They laugh, and smile, drawing me near

My bride

The crowd pushes and pulls
Motioning forward without effort
Life has a way of happening
Without intention

Tan slacks
Brown shoes
Matching belt
Lost in the landscape
Within the throng of humans

I am one of the many others
I am one of the obscure
That is me there
Yes, there I am

Home is warm, not always feeling
That love known to so many
Children take for granted

A winter coat thick with it
A campfire burning bright with it
A known embrace held tight with it

The warmth known like birthday candles
Burning then extinguished suddenly
The eighteenth year, coldly, shown the door.