This fresh coat of paint
You brushed thick across the leaves,
when there’s wind, it drips.

The Poet says, “weeping,
may tarry for the night,
but joy comes with the morning.”

I look and see, their weeping.
Listening, I hear their cries.
I offer them hope after their storm,

'It is not for nought, this weeping.
And though it tarries beyond this night,
eternal joy comes with the mourning.'

I:

I searched an hour for my pjs
so that I could go to bed .
Quarantine has blurred my days
and wreaked havoc with my head.
A quick glance in the mirror,
I see my sanity foregone.
The pajama search abruptly ended.
I already have them on.

II:

My office space keeps moving
as I go from call to call.
Piano practice sends me upstairs
behind our bedroom wall.
Then in comes mom with Ana
to put her down for nap.
So I descend the stairs again.
End this quarantine ASAP!

III:

I’m rowing down the Schuylkill
in a race against a crew.
The art museum is up ahead
and the Rocky statue too.
Now I run across a mountainscape
and through an Alpine town.
Such fantasies! They fill my head.
I hate exercise in lockdown.

IV:

Go out to eat and see a show
the Governor just said.
It’s back to normal and back to school
so get out of your bed.
Stay in your house or six feet apart
is no longer the rule.
I dream of this most every day.
Oh! Today is April Fool.

V:

Office life is underrated
with meetings face to face.
You can criticize a job done poor
and put them in their place.
But in quarantine while on the phone
you dare not scream and yell.
The boss, she’ll hear you acting up.
She’ll come and ring your bell.

VI:

“Thank God it’s Friday,”
has lost all of the appeal.
For tomorrow will be like today
without a different feel.
I wonder did we lose,
the weekend or the week?
Is boredom about to go away?
Or is it even close to peak?

VII:

Log scale graphs are useful
for showing change in rate.
In visualizing the second derivative
they really work out great.
But if you want real people
to understand your math.
Please use less than/greater.
When you project contagion path.

With force my finger,
launches hardened type, pressing
ink into paper.

Pico font pleases
my wistful eye, but the "THWAK"
I hear is better.

With ink smudges and
type mistakes, I'm reminded
that my life is real.

In sweat and blood they birthed the stones.
Their backs bent in a dimly lit choreography,  
they strained to hoist the ashlars into place.
Thirty-six years in a most sacred guild,
they each apprenticed the other.

Their aging bodies lust for sleep,
but it runs from them into the cold night.
Lying there, limbs entwined for warmth,
their calloused fingers touch scars,
which mark the years on their rounding frames.

They remember the works of their labors.
The six structures on which they’ve toiled.
Their six children raised with hope.
The six cathedrals in whom they pray,
both their memories and Christ will dwell.

I sit alone by
our open
window.

With eyes shut, I feel
a slight breeze
come in.

It’s nearly silent
out there now,
so still.

I sense a fey chill
as a cloud
passes.

Drops begin to fall
leaving a
strange scent.

I fear that one might
splash into
our home.

So I close the sash
to shut out
the world.

Again closing my eyes,
I pray for
mercy.

She lived her life with an immature desire.
Dancing and singing, her face lit a room.
But like a firecracker before that boom,
many often held their breath while by her.

I remember once, while near her line of fire,
I blushed, a boy of five, from her strong fume.
Her lips spewing forth in an obscene plume,
while she alone would not hear her deafening ire.

Then I’d relay the circumspect reply,
from a confused face speaking through this child,
as my mother lit a fresh cigarette.

Rewinding the tape with her careful eye,
she watched me imitate the words she’d riled,
never showing me any sign of regret.

Lipstick red, your massive hips
bulge above supple feet.
My finger gently tracing
their obscene curve,
I palpitate at the
pulsing
power
perched
between those thick thighs.
I eagerly enter
you.
You
firmly cup my tensing buttocks.
My foot plunges into your pedal
and we erupt together.
Are we coming?
Or going?

The poetic word is potent.
Like one hundred and seven proof
bourbon,
it makes me drunk.
Plenty of pages of prose
are distilled in
a single
stanza.
It is irresistible as
I swirl it in my mouth.
Sniff it.
Taste it.
Breathe it in.
I hold it up to the light
to peer into its soul.
With voracious appetite,
I invert its glass until
the
last
drip
slides
slowly
south
onto my silver
tongue.

Unlike Caeser, I fear not the Ides of March.
Nay! My curse, it comes the day before.
On this dark day my mind is terrorized,
with each dull digit that I now memorize.
Evil ratio!
Upon Your endless path I cannot gain.
Dreadful day!
Thou doest mock me in my mortal pain.
Irrationality!
Surely this, the price that I do pay.
Yielding now,
I wave white,
before this wicked wretch,
we call
Pi Day.