In the dark
my dog and I walk
quietly across their lawns
down their roads
around their corners.

In the dark
we see vignettes
in the windows
hear the voices
loud or soft.

In the windows
we see tv flickers
lifted hands, but not to praise
hands that raise
against another blow.

In the windows
we see light and laughter
soft embraces
sleeping children
quiet peace.

On the lawns
are men smoking
holding drinks
talking sports
and children's birthdays.

In the dark,
my dog, we wonder
when will we be
loving family
and quiet peace.

in the brokenness of his words.
He knew the words
before his brain began to die.
He spoke the words
before his brain began to die.

I hear my father's heart
in the skips and starts,
the stuttering frustrations
of his voice.
The voice that scolded and teased,
that soothed and laughed,
the voice that prayed gentle prayers
and loving blessings.

I hear my father's heart even
when the words don't come.
He tries to tell me that he's proud of me,
that he's proud of my husband, that I've been
a good daughter,
a good wife,
a good mother.
I know this is what he's saying.

I know my father's heart.

I want to take a vacation,
road trip like we used to,
get in the car, drive till we're lost and
find our way back again.

But there's no point.

It would just be me and Joy.
And while we'd have fun,
we wouldn't have loud singing
and Clay fretting
and Patrick wheezing,
and Cole staring at his gameboy
and Anna Li staring out the window.
and you wouldn't be there.
We wouldn't have slamwiches.
We wouldn't drive as long
or as far away
and I might not find
our way home again.

I saw you coming with your prissy dog
and I moved my solid dog twelve feet away
from the sidewalk where you'd pass by;
But you came my way anyway.
You brought your little sofa dog
three feet away from us and upset mine.
He jumped without warning, wrapped his leash around my knee,
sliced the tender back of it with the nylon webbing,
threw me into the tree that stopped him from running after you.
Did you even take the cell phone away from your ear?
Hey, hey! Watch where you're going with that dog!
"Not my problem!" you yelled back.
Right. Next time, my dog won't give way to your expensive
rug rat. Next time, you can fall into the bushes.
Not my problem.

old checkbooks
sales receipts
gas bills
insurance cards
love letters
college transcripts
repair estimates
project ideas
garden plans
teaching certificate
resignations
copies of copies
greeting cards
collection letters
red light ticket
pencil drawings
broken dreams
rental agreement
prescriptions
church bulletins
life

I’ve written words since I found out that those graphite sticks
could form them and wrote my name
on the top of a kleenex box
when I was four.
I’ve written words since I learned that each one
held a meaning I could hear in my head.
I’ve written words since I realized that writing
releases them from my mind,
so that I can hear myself think.
I’ve written words because numbers run away from me,
just out of grasp, teasing me with
their teamwork and rigid cooperation
and parenthetical expressions.
I’ve written words never read by anyone,
words which embarrass with their frankness
words which I’ve burned thinking they would die.
I’ve written words which I longed to share
because they fit together better than numbers
and made my skin crawl with their
deliciousness.

When I finish reading,
could you not do that old beatnik thing
where you snap your fingers to show
your appreciation?

How about you hold your breath

while you digest words and then let it out
slowly with an ever
so
softly
mouthed "wow..."

Dont just listen to the words.
Inhale them as you might the fragrance
of fresh cut grass on the hottest day.

Or breathe the words in, then spew them out
as though you've driven through
the musky sweet fog
of dead polecat
two days old.