the two of us
in fields of green. I haven't
seen him in years, since
that day we paraded around

the chairs. The cherry
red tomato, donning an
embroidered cap, in colors
every day, navy blue, tan or grey

that hides his bald-pate. He throws
his salted lines a title, he underlines
peppered in black. And I sit
back and read how he plants his

seeds in a wooden bowl of
dreams. I'm cut up like an onion,
in rings. He's a cool cucumber dancing
in springs of parsley, dressing it down.

following him around in his souped
up Honda, looking like Jane
Fonda. Eating plates of greasy
food from diners, from Maine

to the Carolinas. Sleeping in cheap
motels flashing bright neon signs. Driving
over state lines. Stopping in Florida
for a break he breaks out in a sweat as he eyes

the college girls in Daytona beach. The ones
wearing thong bikinis, holding peach bellini’s
in their hands. Not that they'd ever look at the old
man. The guy writing poetry in the sand. The guy

married to the same woman. They both lost
their youth. Like a pulled tooth there's a big
space where it was. But he still has his
tongue that he wags. Eating lunch out of

paper bags and drinking bottled beer
out of the cooler, sitting in beach chairs
and scratching the stubble of hairs on his face
as he faces another day that he doesn’t get laid.

babe, even if you see me
standing on the doorstep. I'm a half
step into another world. My breath's
hanging in the air and the wind

blowing through my hair is just
a visual of a woman caught on film,
the shutter of a camera lens. This scene
you capture and post diagnosed

in a still frame signing your last
name is a proxy. I'm in Greece and
in Spain, just stepped off the
plane. In a villa overlooking the sea,

sipping mimosas, eating brie, shaded
only by the palms. Just the thought
of it calms. No, I'm not here. Babe,
I'm upstairs.

and for lunch eat
fettuccini wrapping the vanilla
strands tight as bird nests in
my hands. I want to lay out in

the sun till I'm golden brown
like a loaf of bread and dip and
splash till I'm waterlogged
and lobster red. Don't call me in

for dinner. I'm listening
to Lynyrd Skynyrd. Big wheels
keep on turning. I'm burning up
the old 45's. It's here I am

alive. The leaves don't fall
off the trees. All I wear is
shorts/no sleeves, flip-
flops and a wide-brim hat,

sitting in a lounge chair with
wooden slats. Sipping frozen
drinks out of paper straws. Life is
better put on pause.

for her, from acorns on
the oak tree, pelting her deck
like a roughneck, to her saggy
pertless breast, that cannot sit

straight on her chest, to strands of
her honey hair clogging the drain
in her bathroom tub. So, the water's
moving slower than a slug as

she's lifting the plug. It's hard
getting old. She's cold all the time
as the sun falls from the sky
and blackness starts at five. Leaves

fall with her, and wither like her
aging skin. If she had back her younger
days she'd fall for the boy next store,
not ******* the kitchen floor.

in tight quarters for hours
like sheep, with scorching heat
beating down. Following
the herds walking around

the ropes like
a zombie for a five-
minute wonky ride that
shakes your inside like a

bowl of strawberry jelly. Strapped
smashed together in narrow
seats is a man with a big belly
that shakes like a bowl of

strawberry jelly. In pitch
blackness surrounded by
screams. Ten thousand dollars
for the American dream!

disjointed people. You're heads
and I'm tails. I'm a warm breeze. You’re
a gusty gale. I'm slow and you're
fast. You walk right past

me, taking the lead. Like a herd of
bison, disappearing over the
horizon.   I'm bottom and you're
top. I'm the first floor. You're

the elevator. You're moon and
and I'm sun. Your day ends. Mine’s
begun.  I'm summer and you're
winter. We splinter as a broken

tree. And fly off as the autumn
leaves.  I'm the sea and you're
the shore.  We're a paper torn in
half. You're edited and I'm the rough draft.