through the wind in a warm
waltzing breeze. Wrapped in
velvet fur men fall in layers
like crimson autumn

leaves. Her chest rises
like a leopard in the Serengeti. Eyes
all over me like a panther in
the snow. I cannot see

them. They shoot out darting
me with the evergreen
glow. She's a lone cougar
ready to pounce. Swag in

her step, flirting in her
flounce. Her footprints are
larger than the moon, marking
men with her golden perfume.

on an ant in hopes it will
fly. Or build a nest for a fish
on a tree way up high. Or place
a beak on a snake

in hopes it will sing. Your phone
doesn't ring by wishes. ***** dishes
piled in the sink don't wash
themselves. You may not

rise in the morning but the sun
surely will. And time goes on
even if you stand still. Clouds
will roll in like the ocean

tide. A turtle cannot hide
drawing into its shell. And death
will come find you, even if
today you are well.

like red rubber *****
till they hit the brick walls
stopping them. Then they
fall flat like Uncle Matt's

jokes. I collect them like cockle
shells on the beach. They're my
peach in the lonely afternoons,
when I'm sitting in the

sand dunes wondering if
they're going to jell. Why did she
tell me so with glee when it was only
make believe? Why did I fall like a

cannonball? Every time she opens
her lipstick mouth they dissipate
into the air like Uncle Matt's
gas in his recliner chair.

with soap and a cotton
cloth the human stain and all
the shame of wearing it
like a port wine

stain on her face. She can
not shrink the scar like smoking
a cigar down to the stub. She cannot
wipe it away with a can of

household spray. It seeps into
the cracks. Like roots growing
in a sidewalk it expands
and buckles, like a punch

in the gut with brass
knuckles. She cannot erase
it like words on the school
blackboard. They fester inside

her head.  She cannot rip it
up like paper in a shredder,
cutting it into narrow strips
or little confetti chips. She can

not paint over it with a make-
up brush to fit. Like a watercolor in
the rain the colors bleed and drain
into a puddle by her feet. How life repeats.

right before the sun is
dawning when the sky turns
bubble gum pink and darkness
begins to shrink all is

quiet. People snuggling
in their beds like caterpillars in
a cocoon missing the mystery of
this silence before they turn

on autopilot.  They scurry
like mice through walls and
floors going about their daily
chores. I cannot breathe after

eight, when the neighborhood
wakes. I'm like a cake falling in
the oven through the bustle and  
the shuffle and the early morning

hussle. Parents packing up
screaming kids. Watching people with
droopy eyelids clutching onto mugs
of coffee as if their life depended

on the rush of caffeine. How prosaic this
routine! Blaring horns, dogs barking and
men double parking robs me of my silent
reverie that time can only keep.

POEM I WROTE ABOUT MY SON ALEX:

The Way He Wears
his smile, like a sundial
casting light across his
face. There're bouncing rays
in his hazel gaze.

The way he wears
his cotton baseball cap, to the
side with the brim hanging off him
like an elephant's ear is so dear.

The way the wears
his ice-cream in chocolate
swirls painted on his shirt and pants
looks like a van Gogh starry night dance.

The way he wears
his sneakers unlaced and his small
waist that can barely hold his shorts
in place with a belt makes my heart melt.

big as brass and randy
slowly rises like a sourdough
over the horizon in a summer's
show. Painting the ocean in

a sea of shimmering pink
like a rhubarb pie, running
juices across the sky. Ascending
into an orange blossom. Hanging

lazy like a possum, filling me
up with mystery like a poem of
Tennessee's. I snap a photo
to frame. But as I look

it's not the same. It's not like
sitting amidst the glow and
salty air. A cooling breeze blows
my hair like spider webs draping across

my face. Dancing waves splashing
spray between my toes like looping
lace.  A tickle in my nose from
the sweeping sand, as darkness slips

through my hand. Standing in a Monet
painting.  Why is night draining? The elevation
waning. The moon is not a prize. Blackness
blinds the eyes.