I wait and wait
and wait for the turn of the brine tide
and bored, I turn and wait no more.
I walk back home,
with a wooden fork
and open vinegared chips.

Sometimes
I wish for a smaller heart,
single chambered,
with no excess capacity,
efficiently run, solitary,
tailored for one, outfitted perfectly,
with no room for give,
nothing wasted, unforgiving.

Sometimes
I wish for lower mileage,
less wear and tear,
a more careful owner,
not given over to road trips
to the beach,
to late night romance,
like in the movies.

Sometimes
preloved is prone to hurt.
Sometimes
I wish for less capacity
for love.

I love solos.  
The courage to stand out front, in front of those consigned to the choir, acknowledging the support they provide with a gracious wave, but not afraid to take the acclaim justly due, front stage.

I love solos.
They celebrate breakthrough, on cue drawing attention away from the typical duets, the quartets, the ensembles, tempering a tendency to celebrate humble, to focus on a singular achievement and an agreement that this is a voice worth listening to.

I love solos.
So step out, take a bow
and make it loud.

I don't do seasons.

What's the point?
Mother Nature pays no attention
anymore - no adherence
to long established norms.
Unreliable, like the rest.
Incomprehensible at best.

So why bother?
Why consider
this season's wardrobe?
Why plan life around the calendar,
when you need any-weather clothes?

So I don't do seasons.
I don't do disappointment.
I don't do expectations.
I just plan for the unplanned
and weather the summer storms.

I'm a man for no seasons.

I envy the equine fly twitch,
the contraction of muscle, the shudder
triggered by the fly’s tickle -
the irritation dispelled in a moment.
I envy that gift to dismiss the torment,
as I sit through another pointless argument.

He was grateful for the earlier impetus to shave
and the rare spur to trim his wayward nostril hairs.

He was pleased that this was a shower day
and that he had thought to try that citrus gel after all.

He was relieved it hadn’t been a typical Friday night,
topped off with a large fish supper after work.

He thanked the saint of 40-plus, single men
for these small mercies, as he recalled her kiss

- a peck really - on his left check, just in front of his ear
as they hugged their goodbye, just outside the station.

It had been just after she gave him her number
and promised a proper catch up soon and sealed

that promise in the squeeze of his hand as they parted.

And later, at the 5th anniversary of that chance meeting,
they laughed their recollection and she confessed

she had been swayed by the citrus.

He opened his eyes well after he woke,
not wanting his touch to be proved a lie.

So he lay still, hiding his fears behind
the pink morning glow though eye lids,
holding his excitement under her breath.

And then she moved her hand
from his arm to his cheek
and she whispered, ‘I’m still here,’

and his joy bubbled up into a grin
as his eyes gave proof to touch and sound.