I watch you sleeping there,
so pale against the stark white sheet,
your long hair, a fine light brown
spreading over the pillow's edge.

Night has arrived and peopled this plain room
with crisp shadows.
From this breeze that moves
but does not cool,
the drapes seem to be in flight,
their nondescript design unraveling
against the dark walls.

I  light a candle and the glow flickers and dances
across your lovely face.

For a moment, I'm remembering your eyes,
very blue, dark, intense,
like shimmering crude diamonds
mined from the bitter earth.

Softly you breathe,
the air rising gently
from your nostrils,
your head resting against the pillow,
your hand relaxing on your abdomen,
rising, falling, like a gentle wave.
Your other hand is at your side
and the fingers are raised, poised,
and my eyes stare gravely
at the ring you wear.
It is strangely chipped, scratched,
but even in its imperfection,
it has a certain affinity for your hand.

It will rain soon and
the sound will rouse you
and you will see me sitting here,
calm, in control,
alert as a sentry on guard and,
even if you would awaken abruptly
and see me gazing at you in silence,
you would instantly remember me
from another time,
a time marked by
troubling dreams unfolding endlessly,
dreams set in this same stifling, airless house
where we now wait together,
wait for the rain to begin,
soaking the drapes,
leaping in fury,
twisting, hiding, submitting,
surrendering to the bleak clear vision
of an open sky.

I observe you now in repose,
as if you were a photograph,
frozen, static, captured in a second,
without past or future, just you there,
leaving me here at your side,
peering at the bed, lifting my eyes,
struggling to see you in this hollow room.

With tears blinding, I rise, stumble, sob,
kiss the cold stone floor and watch you
resting there, so pale, so terribly pale,
and still, so very still,
against the stark white sheet.

Thank you for the many poems
But we're afraid they will not do
And thanks for the S A S E
So we can return them to you

Maybe you thought they were brilliant
Right up there with Whitman and Frost
But frankly they didn't move us
Except when we gave them the toss

We're sure you were not aware
You sent us such lackluster verse
But editors are only human
And your verse just made us feel worse

When we got our swimming pool
We were bamboozled by friends
Who popped up uninvited
And took over our weekends

The friends brought others with them
Strangers we didn't even know
Our popularity soared
Our circle began to grow

But were we being naive?
Were we playing the fool?
We finally learned the truth
When we drained the swimming pool

He steps out of a cab
as a jet
surrealistically
glides
slow motion-like
into the world trade center

he doesn't see it happen
he hears it happen:
          the explosive sound reverberating
          through the silvery upward space

          and then the awful silence descending
          hanging over the street
          an ominous existential moment
          in which time and memory are stilled

he begins to run...

later he hears
a second plane slam into the tower

he's surrounded by people running, shrieking,
a galloping mass of figures racing
against a strange backdrop, a tsunami of
rolling undulating smoke
pouring from the towers

there were those who knew
he had an appointment
this very morning in the towers
a morning that is now an apocalypse
a time when a massive number of people
would be confronted with a fiery demise
annihilated
dna destroyed
identity obliterated
flesh reduced to ash

this was his moment of transformation...
money could fix his destiny
a perfect time when identity could be
so easily purchased, reinvented, altered...

he would start over:
a new name, a new face, a new life -
he would run, flee, escape without regret,
without a trace,
racing ruthlessly, breathlessly
on a path
to his own resurrection...

that must be
the final
indignity
the thought
that comes
and goes
explodes
vanishes
like some
mythical
gossamer thing
that drifts in
your mind the
vision that
completely
disappears
as if some
invisible
sprite had
swiped it
from some
troublesome
cobweb
in your brain
and hustled it
away
that image
that feeling
that number
that person's
eyes  nose  mouth
that remembrance
that funny thing
you said at
some raucous
party a few
years ago
or was it
many years ago?
you can almost
hear the
laughter from
the crowd
as if you were
there again
but what was
it you said
exactly?

and what about
that old neighbor
you liked so much
the one who died
shoveling snow?
a man you knew
for twenty years
and now you can
only vaguely recall
his body sprawled
out at the end
of his driveway
now you can't
even summon
his name
what was
his name?
what was
it?

you would be
grateful now
to dredge up
the very first
time you met
your future
in-laws your
daughter's
first dance
recital your
grandson's first
soccer match
or even that
poem you
revisited
last night
before you
fell asleep
that poem
your wife shared
with you
what was
that poem
about? what was
the title?
the audacious
first line?
all the words
and clever
alliteration
all reduced to
a hazy blur
dissipating
like those
antacid
tablets that
fizzed into
a seltzery
four ounces
swirling
midway down
a plain white
dixie cup you
left
abandoned
forgotten
on the
bathroom
counter hours
ago...could
even discomfort
even pain
be erased
so quickly
so easily
so thoroughly?

This is not a poem about unrequited love
             not a poem about the changing of the seasons,
                                                    babb­ling brooks,
                                                    cloud­less skies,
                                                    Englis­h gardens in full bloom

             not a poem about setting suns, starry skies,
                                             full moons, glittering galaxies    

             not a poem about absent fathers,
                                             weepy mothers or your cranky old
                                             Aunt Clara in the attic plotting
                                             your death while her dentures soak
                                             in a Polident bath cup

             not a poem about the existence or non-existence of
                                                    a Supreme Being

             not a poem about when you abandoned your children
                                             or when your children abandoned you

             not a poem about poverty, social isolation,
                                             the Holocaust, war, the evils of
                                             capitalism, the specter of  injustice,
                                             the injustice of inequality, the
                                             inequality of injustice or any other
                                             word attached to the prefix "in"

             not a poem about ****** conquest, ****** dreams,
                                             the effects of liquor or drugs
                                             on one's libido

             not a poem that uses the f-word, the s-word, the c-word
                                                         ...or any of the other
                                                           ­ objectionable words used
                                                            ­to "front" the remaining
                                                       ­     letters of the alphabet

This
is
clearly
a
poem
about
what
is
not a poem

Was there anyone leaner
Than Anthony ******
Whose cyber texting
Grew meaner and meaner
Whose face was angular
Like the blades of a knife
Whose sole defender
Was his forlorn wife

Better he peddle
His platform and schnoz
On the sweet gentle folk
Of the land we call Oz
With no caricaturists
Or bold paparazzi
To ruin his days
Or his dwindling moxie