"Clean your room already!"
she said for the thousandth time.

But six years said I deserved better
so I loaded my Radio Flyer with licorice and toys
and headed down the sidewalk.

The block was long but I was ready
to leave my chores behind.

Running away from everything
is a luxury that only children can afford
with a twenty-five cent allowance.

And I would have gotten all the way to Michigan
if only I had been allowed to cross the street.

I took my wagon
to the end of our block
knowing I could not go
any further.

Standing there
I waited
for my mother
to bring me
home.

It felt forever
till she came
gathering me
into her arms,
pulling my wagon
home.

It is closer
to our forevers now,
but I am not ready
to let you go.

If you could only tell me
what street to cross
to the corner
of Cancer and You,
I will bring
my wagon.

Ride with me.
Hang on tight.

It's going to be
a bumpy ride
home.

The fallen leaves
are gauzing thin
as they lay decaying
on the forest floor
and the frost that formed
crystal by crystal
slowly in the night
with the morning
sparkles to become
the jewels of fairies.

She is fluttering
her feminine silhouette
flirtatious against the grass
so distorted
that your eyelashes
can not catch her
but only a gleaming hint
of gossamer wings
delicate and ethereal
is reflecting in the morning's
slanting sun.

You are tempted
into probing under a leaf
with a broken twig
seeking her soft footprints
but they make no mark
on the fragile leaves
or in the softened grass
and her clandestine space
is too elusive
for your eyes.

She is hiding
veiled and disguised
carefully concealed
and you can only see
the glittering cobwebs
formed by a hungry spider
into a intricate misted mesh
catching careless flies
and morning dew.

She is fooling you
once again obscure
and her transparent laughter
like the soft spoken sound
of a faraway subtle pan-flute
is floating with your
sheer wonderings
in the waking light.

I walk in socks
unwilling to wake
the sleeping
as I pass the window
showing multiple images,
of myself,
distorted and untouchable,
in the blackened night.

It is easy
to slide quietly
between the pains
of glass
and into that darkness
where my regrets
leave an untouchable
mark.

I can stay in the shadows
as long as the moon
is on my side
and keeps
his hands
to himself.

The canoe kept us
apart
each on our own
hard metal bench,
closer to each other
than we had been
in months.

We rode
finally
in the same direction,
paddling
first on one side,
then the other.

In the calming moments
when rocks were not
running up
to test us,
we found places
to lay our paddles down
and glide
in the quietness.

Both of us
checking
the sky for clouds.

Yes, they all agree.
It's time to go.
Relatives and friends
trickle away
leaving her
to close the door.

Washing up their plates,
she listens to the sounds
of silverware
clinking softly under the suds.

Her eyes cold and hard
as the knife she holds.
Staring at a dripping distortion
of herself,
the face on the blade
is unrecognizable.

Stabbing the knife into suds
that close behind the blade
in a slow thin flow,
no visible trail is left
to show the water's wound.

Her tears drip through
unnoticed
in the changing color
of the dishwater.

Relatives and friends
stream in
to stand by her,
a torrent
of sympathetic chatter,

Red roses,
her favorite,
so lovely
standing tall
together.

Yes, they all agree.

That was clear
as dishwater.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
I have to admit my weakness,
my inability to control my carnal urges.

I have reached again into the depths
of my cupboard where I have vowed
to never enter with a hungry stomach.

And so the temptation of linguine
and innocent tiny shells
crowded into my head
instead of heavenly angel hair.

I have faith that only you
can absolve me of my sins
and twenty pounds, more or less,
a 10% tithe to my Semolina God.

Then there is the matter of the cheese.
Forgive me, please.