Cate turned 41 three days into the (most recent) millenium.
A lot of people thought the world was going to end
              (something about computers or calendars)
It didn't.

She celebrated over a sparkling wine brunch
with friends she rarely
saw.  

They giggled relentlessly over the old jokes and
gracelessly     stumbled
over the o l d       jealousies.

                                                That­ time at the Chinese restaurant at
                                                midnight,
                                                              Wh­o saw him first?
                                                      Wasn­'t it Jane?
                                                           ­    Jane!
                                                Where has she gone, had anyone heard?

No one had but it didn't matter
(so long ago she had stood, placed the thick cloth napkin on the table beside her plate and excused herself to another universe)

Her alarm rang early the next morning:
jarring an artificial start to the day.
Cate wondered where she was for the
moment (before remembering)

No, it wasn't love
Swept right across my heart,
a cartoon breeze
white swirling tail drawn over blue

No, it wasn't love.
But recognition flickered
from behind your
caricature eyes

Overlarge, to match
the head and grin and
those items held to define you
resembled a familiar shelf

where I rest my own desires
so,
close enough
to not swipe left

joining two lines
smoothly, without ripple or gaping
seam, is the task of galaxies
and Artists.

watching the end and
beginning, gliding over the now,
suspending appearance
for truth

(inverting the mind's usual function).
And if it all goes
to hell?

*crumpling the wasted effort

There was a boy in our class no one liked.
Not even the teachers.  
Not even the good ones.  

He was a small kid with a chipped front tooth
too big clothes and third generation sneakers
Not even Mrs. Farris could love.

Not even Mrs. Farris,

Who taught music from behind the curtained stage of the cafeteria
wearing pretty clothes and a performance smile
No one could deny.

Not even Chris.

Not even Chris, who moved from his assigned lunch seat
brought fireworks on the field trip
and who said what he wanted
but probably couldn't read.

Chris went out for choir in the fifth grade
Like he had in fourth
when Mrs. Ferris turned him away.

Behind him in line to audition,
I cringed at the notes that creaked
and broke over his soul.

His voice was painful and
might have been carried by stronger singers
in the service of a 10 year-old's redemption.

But not even a fifth grade cafeteria choir
in poster board costumes would
hold a space in the risers for his conversion.

Chris wanted to be good then,
maybe for the last time,
And no one could hear him.