Her morning began well I suppose
She may have been from out of town
Otherwise I would have not lived my day
With her as I did

I was standing on the corner of holy ground
St. Marks and First in the City
I saw her coming towards me.
She was with a friend
She passed me and then with a few steps more
She sat on a stoop.
She’s drunk I thought
She leaned over and fell on her side

We just did some stuff her friend said
Is she OK
I shook her slightly
What is her name I asked her friend
Jennie
Jennie I said loudly
Jennie
I pinched the skin between her thumb and forefinger
Hard hard with my nails
Nothing

People stopped and looked
Call an ambulance
Her breathing was slowing
I pressed my mouth to hers
And blew and blew
Again and again
Nothing
I pressed her chest over her heart
Again and again
She was gone
Her friend was gone
The ambulance arrived
and I went into the bar on the corner

Today I ate fresh baked bread
crackly crust,smooth dense chewy texture

After one bite I thought.
perhaps some butter, marmalade too

The butter spreads easily
the little holes all fill up nicely

then thickly comes the bitter marmalade
which glues the top slice on

A two handed squish to firm it up..............

a second bite

Good thinking

No matinee today
from my blackbird,
the robin too, is off sick
and the rain is so insistent,
that the shoosh of the wind
in the birch tree is just a whisper.

On days like this,
lonely people in lonely lives
give over and give up;
here in this gun free country
the gas oven, the dressing gown cord
and stored up sleeping pills,
are enough and enable the tired
to leave without saying goodbye.

The dead do not read obituaries,
are not here to unravel confusions,
to answer the question. Why?
to answer the question. Why?
to answer the question. Why?

Now there is one less setting at table
a bedroom door stays shut and
in the bathroom
the toothbrush goes dry in the mug.
The clean shirts at the dry cleaners
are picked up and  on their hangers
with the new heeled shoes in their bag
are fresh goods for the charity shop.

And in this big city village
no one cares
no one really cares

my options are none
death is the sole arbiter
leave it all to fate

bushido ruling
I offer up my haiku
wakizashi kills

The notes of the
oud and piano
meet and meld
each bringing to the other
strength and direction
they take
separate paths and
come back to
reflect against each other
in such a way
never rejoicing
but constant and melancholy
insistent vespers
to mark
the beginning of the end of our day

My local songwriter
the blackbird
is up on his pole
again.
Most evenings
when the sun is downing
to the west
he comes and gives us
a concert,
he has no score
just opens his beak
and  trills.
There is repetition
with variance
and pause.
Sometimes he is so eloquent
that people in the street
stop and listen
and smile at each other
content for a moment
to listen to a genius
granting us solace