pubescent love,
like the love between
the otherwise married,
creates leaves of wilting poetry
curling crisp for the oncoming
winter
winter of our discontent
but not literature
not the song of the bards
just the whimpers
of the wounded.

Only the love of would-have-been strangers
bound like the living
to a corpse
an albatross formed
from naive hopes
produces music.

a step to truth
where she tells him
that her dance card’s
been full many times over

with experiments in heartbreaking

and he, a dip
and a sore heel for not being first
the little verbal twirls
he does
to step to truth

with trepidation and inadequacies—

no one knows who should lead

she said the movie was scery

then he said
it’s SCARY

rabbits scurry
there’s a difference, you know

and in another
little way
he stole her

if i had
that one little
moment back

between the passion
and the abandon

if I could hold it tight
under glass

examine it with prods
and slices

i’d finally know
if it was my best
moment

or my
worst

in Chicago?
We came dressed for
Florida in January,
drank till the headlights
blurred into long
lines of lightening,
did lines of *******
with a *******
from Ohio, ate
steak and eggs
for breakfast.

You were bright
and hot as streetlights
on Clark Street.
In a compact car
we contorted ourselves
to steam the windows.
Then we went home
and broke up
because our fantasy life
was better
than our real one.

he didn’t say much—
the thinking type
i suppose—
but every once in a while
he’d click a
little northern turn
of phrase—

rabbit quick
fox sly
and a little bit like
a Jersey Buddha

I’m too old
too slow
too weak
to win the race
or take the prize.

What I lack
in beauty
or in grace
I make up for
in compromise.