It’s so late I could cut my lights
and drive the next fifty miles
of empty interstate
by starlight,
flying along in a dream,
countryside alive with shapes and shadows,
but exit ramps lined
with eighteen wheelers
and truckers sleeping in their cabs
make me consider pulling into a rest stop
and closing my eyes. I’ve done it before,
parking next to a family sleeping in a Chevy,
mom and dad up front, three kids in the back,
the windows slightly misted by the sleepers’ breath.
But instead of resting, I’d smoke a cigarette,
play the radio low, and keep watch over
the wayfarers in the car next to me,
a strange paternal concern
and compassion for their well being
rising up inside me.
This was before
I had children of my own,
and had felt the sharp edge of love
and anxiety whenever I tiptoed
into darkened rooms of sleep
to study the peaceful faces
of my beloved darlings. Now,
the fatherly feelings are so strong
the snoring truckers are lucky
I’m not standing on the running board,
tapping on the window,
asking, Is everything okay?
But it is. Everything’s fine.
The trucks are all together, sleeping
on the gravel shoulders of exit ramps,
and the crowded rest stop I’m driving by
is a perfect oasis in the moonlight.
The way I see it, I’ve got a second wind
and on the radio an all-night country station.
Nothing for me to do on this road
but drive and give thanks:
I’ll be home by dawn.

When the sun goes down
I have my first drink
standing in the yard,
talking to my neighbor
about the alder tree
rising between our houses,
a lowly tree that prospered
from our steady inattention
and shot up quick as a ****
to tower over our rooftops,
where it now brandishes
a rich, luxuriant crown.
Should we cut it down?
Neither of us wants to --
we agree that we like
the flourishing branches,
shade like thick woods.
We don't say it,
studying our tree in silence,
but we know that if the roots
get into the foundations
we've got real trouble.
John goes back inside.
Nothing to be done in summer --
not to those heavy branches.
I balance my empty glass
on top of a fence post.
In the quiet early dark,
those peaceful minutes
before dinner, I bend down
to the flower beds I love
and pull a few weeds --
something I've meant to do
all day.

Constant
inople.

Raspberry pie
in bed.

These are the dreams
of you I have
in my heavy
little head.

I stood watching the rain
From beneath the shallow shelter
Of a ledge outside my doorway

They said it was nearly freezing
But the cold didn't touch me,
And the rain barely brushed me

I stood watching the world
From beneath the shallow shelter
Of my wealthy life

They said children were dying
But the worry didn't touch me
And their pain barely brushed me

I stood watching the icy rain
But the only thing truly frozen
Is the place where my heart
Lies sheltered beneath a shallow life
Of cold money and lies

I steal her hand, sit by her side
A whispered tone, a swift goodbye
I kiss her deep, and she is gone
I feel too weak to be so strong

I stand up straight, begin to shake
I clench my knees to keep my shape
I stand again, and am not sure
That I can fight, or will endure

I slowly turn the clockwork ****
The old wood groans the more I ****
My loved ones all sweep into view
They act, but they all know the news

A tiny figure takes my side
She grips my leg, begins to cry
I take her up, I kiss her head
I let her cry till tears are dead

I look down at my little girl
I see my wife, emotions swirl
My eyes go red, a heart torn deep


But I have promises to keep
And years to go before I weep
And years to go before I weep