I.

she lives in one of the crummy rooms
down the hall
in the building
where the rats run and tumble
through its terrible walls
like children at play

she has intimate conversations

with saints
and pigeons
and the daffodils in the park
and the rats in the walls
and late at night
with her dead daughter

her boots echo down the hall
she's going to clean the gutters of trash
and feed the cats
I watch from my window
the cats come running from the abandoned church
hundreds come running
the kids call her cat queen
i call her savior

II.


I still hear those boot steps
when the air turns cold
and lakes freeze
and her ghost tells me
people die the way they live
and through the looking glass
down the rabbit hole
we'll all go


III.


there in this concrete
in that crummy room
was the thief that hunts my dreams

but you were something gentle and kind
a brightness in the projects

a caring heart
a loving soul
in this city where there were few

youthful dreams fullfilled
springtimes eternal promise
looking back fondly

many moons ago
summer heat would never fade
wishing for the cold

leaves restless rustle
cooling winds fading to brown
frozen ground below

~
Weather balloon for a hat
propeller on his back
morning is observably alive

leaving it to atmospheric pressure

he consumes today's newspaper
with the enthusiasm of a bowl
of Corn Flakes

this Heath Robinson contraption
of getting to work first
over enemy lines
is all the rage in his satirical
state of mind

that is until the absurd derailment
of wartime employment

and so he returns home with tubes
and catheters attached to his body
and feeling like one
of the unwieldy machines
he had so often created

full of atmospheric pressure

and apparently thinking it
an undignified fate
he pulls out the tubes
and quietly dies
of his own invention
~

Time
A crooked line
Connecting then and now
Never quite achieving the conjunction
That would build a bridge
To somewhere over there
And make a path to
What could be a better sometime
      ljm

Lured by the understated enticements
Of the fog that curls around my efforts,
I’m wondering if that could be the answer
To the questions that I’ve never ever asked.

There doesn’t always seem to be a floor
At the very bottom of the staircase,
So I’m wondering what what I will find
When I step off of the bottom step.
            ljm