The first time that Evan laid eyes on her, he told himself that he was going to marry her. Embarrassed by his own fantasy, he quickly dismissed that thought as fast as it came to mind, telling himself what an idiot he was. Yet, from time to time, in spite of his reasoning, the thought would invade his skull.

What a dumb idea anyhow! It was just lame, teenage fantasyland! Girls did that kind of junk all the time, saying they were going to be Mrs. So-and-so, and thank God nobody could read his mind to know what he was dreaming up! Like she would marry him! He felt like a dumb ****, great in athletics, but far out of her league. Not even having the courage yet to ask a girl out on a date, and now he was already thinking of marriage! Pathetic! Really! Only a freshman in high school, he felt he should know better, lacking the good common sense his dad always tried to drive into him and had himself.

Ginny Delgado belonged with the smart kids, the brains of the school, although she seemed to stick more by herself, away from any stereotypical clique. Evan had first seen her in his biology class, and he remembered when other students wanted to copy off of her test papers. She never allowed any of that to happen, though, even if it would gain her popularity, false popularity but attention just the same.

It was a surprise to him that Ginny seemed to have few friends. Mostly, girls who were nerdy and smart did not seem very attractive or put together. Ginny seemed to have it all. She was smart and pretty, but she never identified with any of the girls who thought they were hot—and all other girls were not—and so she stood apart as one who shrouded herself in guarded aloofness.

And now here he was at his 20th high school reunion, one he really did not want to attend, but talked himself into going anyway. Perhaps, he could shoot the breeze and run into a few old buddies, his basketball friends. He didn't think that much of Ginny since he graduated from Fillmore, much less anybody from all those years ago. There really wasn’t any reason to reminisce once high school was behind him. School was not misery for Evan Stewart, but it wasn’t a time where everything seemed magical and carefree, not like for some students who looked upon those days as some of the fondest memories of their lives.

It was the class of ’92, and a huge banner displayed across one of the walls read, “Welcome back, class of 1992! Fillmore High School rules!” There was a good turnout, and Evan recognized a lot of people, although there were fewer that he knew by name.  

Sitting under dimly light lights, around a bunch of round tables, Evan now sat with the other alumni, stuck in a crowded hall with music blaring away from the early nineties. He had his overpriced meal. He had his few beers.

But what now?

He was almost bored to death. He was beginning to watch the clock more and more, scanning the room to see if he could possibly find reason to stay longer.  But then something happened that he never expected to happen, never even would have imagined it.

And, suddenly, his heart started to pick up its pace.

Was that her?

Evan thought he had made out the vague shape of a possibly familiar figure, an amazing and sudden surprise. Was that Ginny Delgado?

He wondered if he was seeing things as he intently stared across the room at the shadowy prospective of Ginger Delgado. But with the low amount of lighting, it just might not be her but someone he never even met before. How awkward would what be?

If it was Ginny, she was sitting next to a guy who seemed obnoxious and full of himself. Even from afar, he appeared to be a guy who would be in everyone’s face, with wild hand gestures, talking away and giving nobody else a chance for a word in edgewise.  If that really was Ginny, was that her husband? What a trip that would be! All the sense he once attributed to her would have to have gone out the window, if that were the case.

Sitting at Evan’s table were several of the other guys that were also heavy into high school basketball. Most were married and came with their wives—nobody was alone as Evan was—and now they all tried to act like they were thrilled to be all gathered together to show off their accomplishments. They were all passing around stories of life after high school, after basketball—some with talk of their college days, their wives, their kids, their jobs and careers—plenty of drinks to go around, and some toasting to the good, old days and to even brighter futures ahead. Evan was never married and did not have any children, so he felt he had much less to say. Most of those guys were not even very interesting, even though they tried to make it out that they had achieved so much in their lives. They may have been out of shape and past their prime, but all of them tried to act like they were the same as they were twenty years ago. None of what they all said impressed Evan at all, even though he tried to be interested.

He kept looking at the woman across the room, and the more he looked at her, the more he was convinced he was spot on about her. She had to be Ginny! He should just get up now and have the guts to ask her! But what would she say? Yes, I am Ginny Delgado, and this pushy **** next to me is my husband?

Though he was twenty years older, Evan felt just as awkward and as scared as he did in his freshman Biology class. It was better to just let the issue be. He’d rather save face than look like a total fool.

Suddenly, the unexpected occurred, something that gave Evan’s heart even more of a stir than he initially had when he spied her presence. Was it possible? Ginny now looked like she was starring back at him, as if they had somehow miraculously locked eyes and she had an uncanny ability to notice him back, from that afar off, now being transfixed onto him!  

You’ve really lost it now. What do you think, that she really notices you and remembers you?

Ginny stopped paying attention to the obnoxious man beside her and kept looking in Evan’s direction. She even reached her hand up and gave a little wave out his way.

Timidly, Evan waved back.

Standing up, Ginny started to make her way across the room. The obnoxious guy next to her looked on after her, like he could not believe she had wanted to part company with him. Evan guessed she was not his wife—thank God for that!

No, there is just no way she is coming over to talk to you. Alright, maybe she is. Get a hold of yourself now! Stop acting like a teenager and act like you actually know something about women. Come on, Evan! Get it together! She is coming.

Evan was right. It was Ginny Delgado! But she stopped short of his table to sit a down at the table in front of him, next to another fellow classmate of theirs, a female student that he vaguely remembered, though he did not know her name.

It was almost a relief she did not come to sit with him! Yet the disappointment was equally there. Seeing her more up close, Evan knew for sure it was Ginny. She was still quite pretty, perhaps even more so now, her medium brown hair and her dark purple dress complimenting each other. Not wanting to stare, Evan couldn’t help but to shoot many glances her way, without trying to be too obvious.
          
She smiled a lot, glad to talk to another person that she knew, and probably glad to be away from the guy she was stuck with before. Her eyes sparkled, and Evan never remembered ever seeing her so unguarded. In biology class, she was quiet, like he tended to be. Now she seemed so different, seemingly freer to be herself. Evan rarely saw her smile in high school, but thought she was very serious and sophisticated.

Before long, the DJ was now playing Eric Clapton’s Tears in Heaven. Couples at all tables were making their way to the dance floor. Soon, Ginny was approached by some guy who asked her to join him for a dance. She shook her head, no. Nonchalantly, the man turned to the woman that Ginny knew and asked her. She gladly accepted, said something to Ginny as if to have her permission and understanding, and then took the man’s hand to go to the dance floor. Ginny remained at the table by herself, looking on at the dancers with seemingly little regret that she declined an offer.

This might be your only chance, idiot. Are you going to blow it and be a wuss? Go up to her and tell her that you remember her. Go on! It is your perfect chance. What do you have to lose? If she isn’t interested, just go then. You’ve spent enough time here anyway!

“Hi…Ginny Delgado isn’t it?”

Evan asked as he approached her from behind. He cleared his throat. His voice had sounded so gravelly, as if he hadn’t uttered a single word all night. And his heart was beating a mile a minute, and he swore it must have been pulsating through his shirt. He was glad he put his suit jacket back on, for he was probably sweating like crazy.  

Ginny looked up, seemed to look puzzled, but then smiled a little. “I remember you!” she said with growing enthusiasm on her face. “Oh, but I’m sorry. You are going to have to tell me your name again”.

“Evan Stewart”, he replied. “We were in biology class together Remember? We were sophomores.”

A succession of slow songs was now being played, and Ginny’s friend was enjoying the time with her new dance partner. She certainly was in no hurry to make her way back to the table to rejoin sitting and talking with Ginny.

“Oh, sure! I remember now!” Ginny exclaimed. “Evan Stewart. Of course! You were the tall, shy guy that everyone liked because you knew how to win one for us. You were big into baseball, weren’t you?”

“Well, basketball was my best sport. I liked baseball, too, and track”, he replied humbly. It was amazing! She actually remembered more him than he thought she would!  “

Can I sit down and join you?” he asked, his courage and confidence growing.

“Oh, do!” Ginny replied, eagerly.

He felt like he was in seventh heaven. How cool was this? Sitting with Ginny Delgado? It was a bonus to a fairly descent reunion.

“So what have you been up to for the last twenty years?” Evan asked. His face was flush with embarrassment, as if he was just a guy who happened to luck out, but had no real skill in socializing with a woman he once fantasized about.

Ginny laughed a little, putting her hand up to her mouth as if her response was inappropriate. She responded, “You want a few hours? Or should I just give you a one word response?”

Evan smiled, blushing, as he tried to appear smooth and confident. “A one word response?” he asked.

“Yes. I can say it in one word—roller coaster….oops, that is two words”.

They both just sat there as I Can’t Make You Love Me, by Bonnie Raitt, played on.  

“Yeah…I guess I could say that about my life”, Evan agreed. “Would you like me to get you something from the bar?” he offered. “A coke or a beer?”

Ginny stared out onto the floor, as if she never heard him. “Isn’t it amazing how everyone comes to see the same people they always used to hang out with and still intend to hang out with to this day?” she asked. “How boring and predictable!”

Evan looked at her, puzzled, “What do you mean?”

Ginny continued to look out onto the floor, the music now upbeat dance music, and said, “Well, I mean you see all the football heroes all hanging out with each other. The members of the debate team are all huddled together as if they are preparing for the next debate. The cheerleaders, the drama club, the science club geeks…nothing has changed has it?”  

Evan shrugged his shoulders. “I guess that is typical. But that isn’t me. Sure, I saw some of the guys I played ball with, basketball, but the truth is I am not really that interested in hanging out with them.”

Ginny turned to look at him, her hazel eyes intent and solemn. Evan added, “I don’t have any contact with any of them. Nothing against them. I just don’t”.

They looked at each other in the eyes for a while. The silence was awkward. It was as Evan’s watching and waiting for her reply was the cue for Ginny to open up, and open up she did.

“I went to UCLA on a scholarship. I became a history major, world history, American history, women’s history. I never intended to teach, not at first. But it just seemed a good fit for me, and I have had plenty of teaching jobs, junior high school, high school. I moved to Sacramento.  I was briefly married after I got my first real teaching job there.”

Ginny’s eyes glistened. There was a pain in them that seemed locked in deep, not really wanting to expose itself too much, but coming out nonetheless.

Evan listened on, eagerly, so she went on, her gaze towards the dance floor “It did not work out. He cheated. He did it more than once and with more than one woman.  And now that I look back, I can see how wrong it all was, especially after my miscarriage. At first, I was so crushed, and I wanted to try again, for another baby, to try to please him, Jim, my husband. Thank God, I didn’t go on and on with him. I am glad I came back here…..back to Springdale.”

She looked back at Evan. He quickly looked away from her glance, his eyes downcast to the table. She wasn’t kidding. Her life was a roller coaster. He did not know what to say, felt so inadequate.

He decided to just share, in return.

”I was engaged once. It was a long engagement. She was a friend of a friend. Lana was her name. She told me she wanted to be with me, but she just wasn’t ready to make the big leap just right away. Actually, I am kind of glad now that I look back. We both owned our own shops. She was a hair stylist and I owned my own car repair shop, but that was about all we really had in common. I mean not really, even though we both liked sports a lot. We never seemed to agree on anything.”

Like he did, Ginny just listened intently, not attempting to make any reply. Evan added, “She was willing to cut me down in a second. I see that now”.

“Well how do you like that?!”

Evan and Ginny looked up as the woman that Ginny came over to see arrived back from the dance floor. She was walking, hand in hand, with her new found dance partner, fanning herself with her hand and laughing.

“Ginny’s got some company, too!” she exclaimed, beaming at Evan.    

Ginny replied, “Rhonda Flemming, this is Evan Stewart. She used to be Rhonda Boehner back in Fillmore”

Ginny turned to Evan to introduce him to her old classmate. “Evan…Rhonda. Evan, I don’t know if you two ever met each other before when we all went to school”.

“I’m not sure I have, either”, he replied, extending his hand to shake Rhonda’s. Rhonda quickly grabbed hold of his and gave it an overly enthusiastic shake.

“Hi, Evan!” she exclaimed "This handsome man next to me  is Brian. I never knew Brian until he asked me to dance!” she said excitedly. “And I am newly divorced and so is he! How strange is that?”

Brian shook Evan’s hand and then Ginny’s. “How’s it going?” he asked, grinning with embarrassment at Rhonda’s forward frankness.

“Ginny is one of the smartest people”, Rhonda went on to Evan and Brian. “We were once partners in an English class. We had to write a paper about each other. That was so fun in an otherwise booooooring class. Remember, Ginny?”

Ginny rolled her eyes, and made a shooing gesture with her hand to convey that Rhonda did not know what she was talking about. “I’m not as smart as anyone ever thought I was. I just worked hard and did my best, but thanks anyway for the compliment” , she said, modestly.  

“Oh, you were, too, Ginny!” Rhonda disagreed. She had a gleeful glint in her eyes. “Always so serious, Ginny Delgado! “

Rhonda grabbed Brian’s hand. “Hey, Brian and I are going to go mingle and walk around and see what trouble we can get into. You two want to join us?  

Ginny and Evan looked at each other as if to say “No way!” Ginny responded, “I think we are just fine here, but thanks”

Rhonda winked at her and then tugged at Brian’s hand. The pair of them went off together, leaving Evan and Ginny to themselves.

Evan smirked at Ginny, and then they both started cracking up with muffled laughter. Evan paused and then burst out laughing again. “Where did you find her?” he asked. A tear actually began to run down his face from laughing so hard, and he quickly wiped it away.

Ginny stopped laughing, tried to compose herself, but busted out with even more laugh

Watch out for power,
for its avalanche can bury you,
snow, snow, snow, smothering your mountain.

Watch out for hate,
it can open its mouth and you'll fling yourself out
to eat off your leg, an instant *****.

Watch out for friends,
because when you betray them,
as you will,
they will bury their heads in the toilet
and flush themselves away.

Watch out for intellect,
because it knows so much it knows nothing
and leaves you hanging upside down,
mouthing knowledge as your heart
falls out of your mouth.

Watch out for games, the actor's part,
the speech planned, known, given,
for they will give you away
and you will stand like a naked little boy,
******* on your own child-bed.

Watch out for love
(unless it is true,
and every part of you says yes including the toes),
it will wrap you up like a mummy,
and your scream won't be heard
and none of your running will end.

Love? Be it man. Be it woman.
It must be a wave you want to glide in on,
give your body to it, give your laugh to it,
give, when the gravelly sand takes you,
your tears to the land. To love another is something
like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall
into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.

Special person,
if I were you I'd pay no attention
to admonitions from me,
made somewhat out of your words
and somewhat out of mine.
A collaboration.
I do not believe a word I have said,
except some, except I think of you like a young tree
with pasted-on leaves and know you'll root
and the real green thing will come.

Let go. Let go.
Oh special person,
possible leaves,
this typewriter likes you on the way to them,
but wants to break crystal glasses
in celebration,
for you,
when the dark crust is thrown off
and you float all around
like a happened balloon.

"Soyez muette pour moi, Idole contemplative..."

I came home and found a lion in my living room
Rushed out on the fire escape screaming Lion! Lion!
Two stenographers pulled their brunnette hair and banged the window shut
I hurried home to Patterson and stayed two days

Called up old Reichian analyst
who'd kicked me out of therapy for smoking marijuana
'It's happened' I panted 'There's a Lion in my living room'
'I'm afraid any discussion would have no value' he hung up

I went to my old boyfriend we got drunk with his girlfriend
I kissed him and announced I had a lion with a mad gleam in my eye
We wound up fighting on the floor I bit his eyebrow he kicked me out
I ended up ******* in his jeep parked in the street moaning 'Lion.'

Found Joey my novelist friend and roared at him 'Lion!'
He looked at me interested and read me his spontaneous ignu high poetries
I listened for lions all I heard was Elephant Tiglon Hippogriff Unicorn
        Ants
But figured he really understood me when we made it in Ignaz Wisdom's
        bathroom.

But next day he sent me a leaf from his Smoky Mountain retreat
'I love you little Bo-Bo with your delicate golden lions
But there being no Self and No Bars therefore the Zoo of your dear Father
        hath no lion
You said your mother was mad don't expect me to produce the Monster for
        your Bridegroom.'

Confused dazed and exalted bethought me of real lion starved in his stink
        in Harlem
Opened the door the room was filled with the bomb blast of his anger
He roaring hungrily at the plaster walls but nobody could hear outside
        thru the window
My eye caught the edge of the red neighbor apartment building standing in
        deafening stillness
We gazed at each other his implacable yellow eye in the red halo of fur
Waxed rhuemy on my own but he stopped roaring and bared a fang
        greeting.
I turned my back and cooked broccoli for supper on an iron gas stove
boilt water and took a hot bath in the old tup under the sink board.

He didn't eat me, tho I regretted him starving in my presence.
Next week he wasted away a sick rug full of bones wheaten hair falling out
enraged and reddening eye as he lay aching huge hairy head on his paws
by the egg-crate bookcase filled up with thin volumes of Plato, & Buddha.

Sat by his side every night averting my eyes from his hungry motheaten
        face
stopped eating myself he got weaker and roared at night while I had
        nightmares
Eaten by lion in bookstore on Cosmic Campus, a lion myself starved by
        Professor Kandisky, dying in a lion's flophouse circus,
I woke up mornings the lion still added dying on the floor--'Terrible
        Presence!'I cried'Eat me or die!'

It got up that afternoon--walked to the door with its paw on the south wall to
        steady its trembling body
Let out a soul-rending creak from the bottomless roof of his mouth
thundering from my floor to heaven heavier than a volcano at night in
        Mexico
Pushed the door open and said in a gravelly voice "Not this time Baby--
        but I will be back again."

Lion that eats my mind now for a decade knowing only your hunger
Not the bliss of your satisfaction O roar of the universe how am I chosen
In this life I have heard your promise I am ready to die I have served
Your starved and ancient Presence O Lord I wait in my room at your
        Mercy.

                                        Paris, March 1958

Trying to avoid the routes everyone else travels
I take remote side roads and superfluous detours
seeing sights unseen and grass that’s green
until gravelly roads are met by tired tires
breaking down in the middle of nowhere
with nobody around to help
I can see the freeway from here
where cars flock together
while getting to where they want to go.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pin rest; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the ***** sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging.  I look down

Till his straining **** among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a *****.
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper.  He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf.  Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no ***** to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.

She is sleek , a little battered
scar across her back
but in her silver dress
whoa, never had a girl like that
long legs propel her fast
in any direction I turn her head
She lets me press her buttons
she lets me turn her on
just one flick and she'll be roaring
or one twist and she sits
motionless

When she breaks down
I pick her up, fix her up
god bless
She's hot in summer
frigid in winter and
always in that dress
She soothes me when I'm stressed
blares out my worries when
I've got them on my chest

She yells out songs at
the top of her gravelly voice
or she whispers lullabies
it's my choice
loud, quite, she doesn't care
I could be rich, or broke
she'd still take me anywhere

I've cried in her arms
I've loved in her lap
I even let her wear
my favorite baseball cap
and see my feet
Once she kept me warm
during my sleep
watched my eyes shifting
underneath my lids
If she lasts long enough
someday she could hold my,
my kids

For Grace Bulmer Bowers


From narrow provinces
of fish and bread and tea,
home of the long tides
where the bay leaves the sea
twice a day and takes
the herrings long rides,

where if the river
enters or retreats
in a wall of brown foam
depends on if it meets
the bay coming in,
the bay not at home;

where, silted red,
sometimes the sun sets
facing a red sea,
and others, veins the flats'
lavender, rich mud
in burning rivulets;

on red, gravelly roads,
down rows of sugar maples,
past clapboard farmhouses
and neat, clapboard churches,
bleached, ridged as clamshells,
past twin silver birches,

through late afternoon
a bus journeys west,
the windshield flashing pink,
pink glancing off of metal,
brushing the dented flank
of blue, beat-up enamel;

down hollows, up rises,
and waits, patient, while
a lone traveller gives
kisses and embraces
to seven relatives
and a collie supervises.

Goodbye to the elms,
to the farm, to the dog.
The bus starts.  The light
grows richer; the fog,
shifting, salty, thin,
comes closing in.

Its cold, round crystals
form and slide and settle
in the white hens' feathers,
in gray glazed cabbages,
on the cabbage roses
and lupins like apostles;

the sweet peas cling
to their wet white string
on the whitewashed fences;
bumblebees creep
inside the foxgloves,
and evening commences.

One stop at Bass River.
Then the Economies
Lower, Middle, Upper;
Five Islands, Five Houses,
where a woman shakes a tablecloth
out after supper.

A pale flickering.  Gone.
The Tantramar marshes
and the smell of salt hay.
An iron bridge trembles
and a loose plank rattles
but doesn't give way.

On the left, a red light
swims through the dark:
a ship's port lantern.
Two rubber boots show,
illuminated, solemn.
A dog gives one bark.

A woman climbs in
with two market bags,
brisk, freckled, elderly.
"A grand night.  Yes, sir,
all the way to Boston."
She regards us amicably.

Moonlight as we enter
the New Brunswick woods,
hairy, scratchy, splintery;
moonlight and mist
caught in them like lamb's wool
on bushes in a pasture.

The passengers lie back.
Snores.  Some long sighs.
A dreamy divagation
begins in the night,
a gentle, auditory,
slow hallucination. . . .

In the creakings and noises,
an old conversation
--not concerning us,
but recognizable, somewhere,
back in the bus:
Grandparents' voices

uninterruptedly
talking, in Eternity:
names being mentioned,
things cleared up finally;
what he said, what she said,
who got pensioned;

deaths, deaths and sicknesses;
the year he remarried;
the year (something) happened.
She died in childbirth.
That was the son lost
when the schooner foundered.

He took to drink. Yes.
She went to the bad.
When Amos began to pray
even in the store and
finally the family had
to put him away.

"Yes . . ." that peculiar
affirmative.  "Yes . . ."
A sharp, indrawn breath,
half groan, half acceptance,
that means "Life's like that.
We know it (also death)."

Talking the way they talked
in the old featherbed,
peacefully, on and on,
dim lamplight in the hall,
down in the kitchen, the dog
tucked in her shawl.

Now, it's all right now
even to fall asleep
just as on all those nights.
--Suddenly the bus driver
stops with a jolt,
turns off his lights.

A moose has come out of
the impenetrable wood
and stands there, looms, rather,
in the middle of the road.
It approaches; it sniffs at
the bus's hot hood.

Towering, antlerless,
high as a church,
homely as a house
(or, safe as houses).
A man's voice assures us
"Perfectly harmless. . . ."

Some of the passengers
exclaim in whispers,
childishly, softly,
"Sure are big creatures."
"It's awful plain."
"Look! It's a she!"

Taking her time,
she looks the bus over,
grand, otherworldly.
Why, why do we feel
(we all feel) this sweet
sensation of joy?

"Curious creatures,"
says our quiet driver,
rolling his r's.
"Look at that, would you."
Then he shifts gears.
For a moment longer,

by craning backward,
the moose can be seen
on the moonlit macadam;
then there's a dim
smell of moose, an acrid
smell of gasoline.

They could practically be heard arguing throughout the whole diner, but they were oblivious to their small audience of onlookers in the heat of their conflict. Tori stood there with her hands on her hips as her husband, Hank, made himself clear that he was upset. He was sitting up at the counter on one of the barstools eating his chili. On the other side, Tori poured herself a much needed cup of coffee.

“You’re a waitress, not Mother Theresa! A mother with two hungry mouths!” he bellowed out to her. “That’s less money that goes into our pockets! What the hell were you thinking, Tor?”

“Was only helping a poor guy out!” she shot back. “He looked hungry and—big deal—so I bought him something to eat! So forget it, Hank, cuz I’m not sorry!” She remained defiant in her stance, unapologetic in her Good Samaritan role. Her boss never allowed her to give free food away, so the food was on her. It was a hot dog and fries, one time, some bacon and eggs, another.  She got the man bagels, donuts, toast, oatmeal—whatever she could supply with his usual cup of coffee he ordered. It was obvious from the word go that he had little in his pocket, and he could barely put a tip on the table—usually a nickel or a dime, sometimes a few pennies. He wore the same shabby tee shirt, flannel shirt and bummy jeans. And those pitiful shoes—with his dingy white socks poking through at the big toe of his right foot—that was pitiful.  So what if she had two young children? Nobody was going into the poor house because she bought a poor guy a few meals.

“Well, stop buying him food! No more!” Hank commanded. Tori gave him her best you’re not the boss of me look as he put his spoon down and walked over to the booth towhere the man with unkempt, silvery hair, and an untrimmed beard, sat.  That was his usual spot, and that was Tori’s booth to cover.  

The man just stared at him, not seemingly startled by the younger man who boldly confronted him. “Hey, look!” Hank said, lowly, yet sharply, “Straight up and no *******. Get a job. Get a life. Just quit taking advantage of my wife. Got it?”

It didn’t seem like the intimidation was working. The man just stared at Hank, his deep, soulful, brown eyes could penetrate right through him, and Hank wanted to shift his gaze away. He didn’t though, for that wouldn’t have given him the menacing upper hand. “Well!” he demanded, fidgety and frustrated, “What’s your problem?” The response was simply the same silent stare and Hank blurted out through clenched teeth, “Don’t take nothing no more from my wife!”

Unexpectedly, the man placed his hand upon Hank’s and said, “My son, don’t be angry. Sin no more. I give you my blessing, and go now in peace”. Hank quickly pulled his hand away, his face burning with embarrassment. A few guys at table nearby snickered at the sight of the pair.

“The guy’s nuts!” Hank got up and moved back to the counter. “What does he think? He’s Jesus or something?”

“Hank, quit stirring up drama or you gotta leave! You’re gonna drive out business!” Al chimed in. Al was in the kitchen helping the cooks in the back to get out orders. Now if anyone had a right to kick Hank out it was him. He owned the place.

Hank, still enraged, pointed his finger at Tory and promised, “We’ll talk later!” He quickly stormed out. Tory was not to be dictated to, feeling vindicated for her kind actions.

Well, everyone thought the man who tried to bless Hank was harmless, off kilter, maybe, but harmless. He didn’t seem to cause any trouble, and he minded his own business—only spoke until spoken to, and it was always with grace. Was there something special about him? It was only Tori and fellow waitress, Bonnie, who put more stock into this than anyone else would.

“And what if he is God?” Bonnie asked.

Al scoffed, trying to keep the conversation at a low minimum.  “You sound just as loony as he is”

“Well? And what if he was?” Tori backed up Bonnie. “Or maybe even an angel! You know they can come in many disguises! Maybe God is trying to test us to see if we really give a ****. Did you ever think of that?”

Al shook his head. He couldn’t believe he was having this conversation. “Test us?” he asked back as if Tori had no sense at all. “You’ve watched too many TV shows!” He raised his hands up in a grand fashion of showmanship, knife in hand,” Or maybe I’m not the owner of Al’s Diner, but I’m really God myself”, he mocked.  “So, as God, my dear little children, I command you back to work! Come on, now! Chop, chop!” He started to shoo everyone away. “How you think we are going to feed the masses, huh? With loaves and fishes? Customers! Customers! Get those orders moving!”  

The smells and sizzling sound of hamburgers on the grill were enticing to the senses. Tori and Bonnie went back to busily retrieving orders, and Al went to chopping some tomatoes, but soon he was playfully tapped on the shoulder.  It was Amber, another waitress who never seemed privy to the conversation.  “You remember this song?” she asked him, singing the tune in an off-key way, “What if God was one of us, just a slob like one of us….”

“Just a stranger on a bus, trying to make his way home…” Tori sung along, cheerfully moving about, adding a pretty, more melodious tone to the song.  

“Exactly”, Bonnie exclaimed, enthusiastically. “Like God’s gone undercover!”

Al rolled his eyes, for he thought he made himself clear he was done with this talk. But he couldn’t help but get a kick out his quirky waitresses. “Sure I know that tune—a few decades back—blonde chick—what’s her name?” he asked, smirking.  

“Joan Osborne”, Bonnie proudly stated. “Cool song, too. Makes you think a bit…at least for me.”

“And so why not ask him who he is?” Joey asked. “He’s got a name.”

It was like everyone forgot Joey was in the room though he was busily busing tables and sweeping floors. Tory, Bonnie and Al stopped what they were doing and intently looked at the teen. He seemed to ask a sincere question.  Al burst out laughing. “Now someone’s talking sense, and chalk it up to the kid with good wits. Yeah, Joey, these ladies just want to exist in fantasy land. Go, Team Al!”

Joey shook his head and said, soberly, “Not taking anyone’s side. I just think he’s got a name and he’s got a story behind him…and it isn’t what you think, Tori…or even you, Al.”

Al waved his hand to dismiss the whole thing. “Yeah, his name is probably Ralph, or something. Even then, I bet Tory would believe he is the Almighty right there in the flesh!”

“I would!” Tory shot back. She looked at Joey and answered, “Maybe you do think I’m as bad as Al does, but you’re too polite to admit it…but…yeah…I did ask him his name.”

“And, so?” Al asked, pretending with wide eyes to be full wonder, like he was clinging to every word, anxiously. “What’s his name?”

He was simply finding humor at her expense, and Tori wished she never said a thing. She reluctantly replied, “I am what I am.”

What?” Bonnie asked. “What does that mean?”  

Al replied, “I am what I am! Well, that sure don’t mean Popeye, sweetie!” With a comical, gravelly voice, he did his best Popeye imitation, “I yam what I yam and that’s all I am!”, squinting up one of his eyes he teased Tori, “Got that Olive Oyl?”

Bonnie and Joey laughed along at the sight of him, and Al added, “Look! I may be practically an atheist, but I’m not ignorant to the bible. That’s just what God said to Moses when he asked the same question!”

Tory defended the poor man that she so proudly helped. “So what if he does think he is God? He’s not doing anyone any harm, is he?” Al completely ignored her, so Tory to turned to Joey, and asked again, “What harm is there in it?”

Joey slightly smiled at Tory, trying to remain respectful to her beliefs, and said, “Truth be told, I don’t know much about God. I’m not a churchy person. He pointed over at the poor man in the booth and said, “I just know if God existed, it’s not him.”
  
Tori was saddened by Joey’s words. It was not that because he didn’t believe her ideas were feasible—that maybe God was testing them—but that he didn’t even know if God existed. The youth nowadays—who did they have to look up to?  Who guided them? The internet? Their cell phones? So many people seemed to have walked away from their faith or had none at all. And Al reminded Tori so much of her own dad. She grew up in a home without religion. Her mom had a vague notion of God, but her dad was a huge skeptic that had the same mocking spirit that Al had. Neither her father or Al were bad guys, but there were no miracles in their worldview. There was nothing divine, and everything was so ordinary and practical.

But Tori always felt awestruck by the world, nature and the animals, a curious minded child. She was the one who had that childlike faith—even now as a grown woman—and she yearned to know God, personally, not just know about Him. She just had to believe that this world and the universe were not all just for nothing, not at all a happenstance, not a just a brief journey on this earth and then that was it. It was after searching and yearning that Tori went to her friend’s church, and soon became a Catholic. She might have been alone in her family in this endeavor, but it gave her life more meaning.

Tori would look at the figure of Jesus upon the crucifixion and oddly was comforted by the sight of him that might bring others revulsion or doubt—the nails piercing his hands and feet, the thorn of crowns, the blood, the tragic sight of his lifeless body so cruelly tacked up upon the cross.  She raised her own two children to know God, and Hank’s lukewarm feelings did not match hers. He wasn’t much help in that department at all. But she knew by looking through the bible that true life was about helping other people, that God loved the poor and the downcast. To find your life, you had to lose your life. To feel exalted, you had to humble yourself. To give your life, to save someone else’s—well, that was the greatest gift you could give. That means you gave it all.  She might not have been the smartest person in the world, but she didn’t need to be bible scholar to figure such things out.  

Well, it would be a while before Tori would see her special customer again. But one day she ran back into the kitchen and told Al, excitedly, “His name is Bill!”

Al shot her a strange look, and then he got the connection. “Oh, so that’s God name?” he said jokingly.

Tori pulled him by the arm and took him out front, summoning Bonnie and Joey over, too. Bill was sitting in the same booth he often did, but there at the counter stool sat a petite, sixty-something-year-old woman whom everyone was about to meet. “Al, Bonnie, Joey, this is Bill’s sister, Mary”, Tori introduced her. “She shared with me about Bill’s story, and I think you should know, too.”   She looked like Bill, but had black dyed hair and was better put together. There was a warm and gentle way about her that intrigued Tori. And she sat there to shield her brother by keeping him out of the conversation, for she didn't want to upset her brother by mentioning something that might cause him pain.

Actually, they all were intrigued by her story.  Mary had told them that Bill once had a family, a wife and two sons. He couldn’t keep a steady job, though, and he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. His wife divorced him years ago and moved out of state with their two boys. His sons never tried to contact him, and he hasn’t seem ever since. For quite a while, Bill lived on his own, but he didn’t take good care of himself. He was living more poorly than ever—not eating right or caring for himself, erratically taking his medication, and so it wasn’t a surprise that he lived a deluded life. “He does strange stuff like that, think he is God”, Mary admitted to Tori. “He’s been made fun of a lot for acting that way, and it’s my job to watch over him and see that he is safe. So now I help take care of him, and he lives with me. Bill’s always been too proud to accept my help, but the doctor says being with me will help to give him a better life”. Mary was a widow, and she didn’t have much money herself, but she did what she could to protect her brother.  

Al looked embarrassed, knowing now the truth about Bill and realizing he was making fun when he should have known better. Mary gave Tori a huge hug. “And thank you”, she said to Tory, “for looking out for my brother, too.”  Everyone, even Al, was deeply touched by their embrace.  

“You know that Tori is a saint”, Bonnie bragged on her behalf to reiterate the same sentiment. “There should be more people like her.”

Tori remained humble and disagreed, “No, I’m just doing what we should all do in this world. If anything, it teaches me that we should all see God in every opportunity.”

Al whispered into Tori’s ear and told her, “You want to give him something to eat again, well now don't bother paying for it. It's on me”.  She smiled at him like was ready to give him a big hug, and he added, “Don’t think this makes me all buying all this God stuff—or anything”.

“And why not?” she asked.  

He replied with his own question, the ultimate question that people have been asking for ages. "Why would any god allow a man to suffer like that? Just look at him! How could that happen and you still think there is some guy in the sky that's all warm and fuzzy, like some invisible Teddy bear?"  

"Oh, you mean so how can God be loving, fair and merciful?", she snapped back, hurt that Al would make faith sound so childish and idiotic. Tori thought a moment, and simply replied, "I could ask the same question. Is life fair? Is it just wishful thinking? Actually, all my life I've wondered such things. The difference between us though is I don't know all the answer any better than you...but I still believe."

Al waved his hand away at her, "Whatever..."

"Wait!", Tori commanded him as he walked away. Al stopped and turned to face her like he was more than through with this conversation.  She said, "Maybe if us mere mortals did our job on earth of helping others, it would better a whole nother story. You'd probably have a different point of view, Al."

She didn't expect Al to have some bolt of enlightenment when it came to God, but before he went back to the kitchen he left her with words she wished he didn’t say. “All those people way back then…all those prophets and saints…supposing they were around today. You think they'd they stand up to today's world? I don't. Wouldn’t they on meds, too? I'd say we wouldn't see them any differently than we'd see Bill.”  Blindsided, she never did know how to follow up with all that. Al just knew how to rain on her nice parade.

Joey never said anything about that day, but when Bill came in again, Tori surely took special notice of them sitting together for a while. When she passed by the table, Joey was watching Bill walk around, and she quickly noticed the new black and green athletic shoes on his feet. Even on him, they looked sharp.

”They fit alright?”  Joey asked. Bill nodded, and shook the boy’s hand. He never said anything about it, but his silly, old grin—along with a few missing teeth—was priceless. He truly was happy to get those shoes. The old ones, with the hole in the toes, remained on the floor to be pitched out.  

Tori had to ask Joey, “You bought those for him? That’s so sweet of you!”

Joey smiled. “I just never could stand those beat up, old shoes”, he replied. “They are a good brand, but didn’t put me back that much. I’m not making a big deal about it, though. I’m not even going to tell anyone I did it. Only telling you, because you asked.”

“Makes you feel good, doesn’t it? Like it really makes a difference”.

“Yeah, it does. It’s like buying God a pair of shoes.”

Did he just say it was buying God a pair of shoes? How odd to hear that from Joey, but how that statement impacted her, and Tori would never forget that.  She gave Joey a peck on the cheek and a hug. He was like a little brother to him. She didn’t feel old enough to be a mother figure, but she felt some kind of sisterly feeling for him.

Joey went on to explain, “Yeah, I’ve been thinking a lot about Bill, lately. He lost his job, his family—he lost everything. No, he’s not God, but I was thinking…though I don’t know that much about religion or God, I thought that if you do

I take flight
With all my might
To be your kite
Following you wherever you go
To be part of your ebb and flow
People think I ingested the wrong pill
Because up here I can't see the roadkill
And float over the pitch black oil spills
From the end of your string
I become king

There is an approaching storm
As you deviate from the norm
And discontinue acting warm
Your lightning strikes
My metal pike
Electricity tears through my thin fabric
As I dream of a tranquil casket
And you want to grant me my death wish
I guess that's why they call me Icarish
For flying to close to the rain
Only to constantly feel pain
To distract me from the shame
From those with unknown names
But familiar bigoted flames
To me you both are the same
Once I go against the grain
You tell me to stay in my lane
High above the gravelly ground
Where you can't hear my sounds
Of impaling wailing
Because you're bailing
Letting go of the string
You become king

I am a kite floating
Spending night noting
All my many mistakes
That caused these breaks
But despite trying my very best
The wind provides a difficult test
After I am battered into tatters
My hopes couldn't be flatter
So I start to feel it doesn't matter
When my dreams came true then shattered
The wind solemnly sings
Of distant powerful kings
But I cannot fly anymore
In my broken kite form

The lantern sways, as shadows flash,
Mists draped in night so still;
Illuminating fleshless arms,
Creep-out along this hill.
Such guardians of soul-less mounds,
Wooden markers of the poor,
Bow in hallowed reverence
As sentries evermore.

Weeping, yet un-frightened,
She trips between each aisle;
Casting light against each stone,
Acknowledge each beguiled.
Then memory finds her grasping,
And clenching cold, damp stone
Denoting ‘neath a vacant plot,
For he never did come home.

‘Pon scattered grass and gravelly dirt;
Drops to reverent knee,
While fanning simple pleats about,
Her dress, in modesty.
She twists the **** and raises wick;
And it curls with cloak of flame.
She whets her lips, inhaling deep,
Then summons ‘pon his name:

“Bartholomew,  Bartholomew,
Can you see that I ‘ave come?
Are you near, me sweetest husband?
‘Tis I, your Mary Dunn!
I had me thoughts to come t’night,
To ‘ave a word with you,
That’s pressin’ on me heart so fierce,
Ya’ ‘round Bartholomew?
Aye, that’d be just like ye some,
To wait fer me confess;
A’twisten’ in me awkward words,
No salve fer me distress!
Yet I—I need t’hear yer voice
An’ calmin’ words to heal,
The anxious quiver, here, inside,
A’longin’ to reveal.”

The widow paused, collecting will,
And questioned own intent;
To cast a net to spirit’s world,
To herald self- repent.
She wrings her fingers nervously,
While waiting ‘pon the dead;
When suddenly a breeze did rise,
Then a hand upon her head.

“Mary Dunn, me Mary Dunn,
‘Ave not better things to do;
Than wander ‘bout such crypts at night,
A’hovered by the moon?
What keeps y’here in dank an cold,
So callin’ out fer me?
Ye know fer fact I’m dead by now,
An rottin’ in the sea!”

“It’s good to see ya’ too, my love;
Better then, to hear;
That death din’t take away that tongue,
Or how ye prone t’snear.
I ‘spected that I’d smell ya’ first,
That rancid scent of whale;
Yer eyes were once quite darker,
Yer skin not quite so pale”.

The spirit corpse then spun about,
Examined high and low,
The fiery bride he’d left behind,
With heart so still aglow.
Warmed by her excited eyes,
And cheeks so pink with life;
He felt a distance aching,
Longing for this wife.

“Ye got a bit of lonely, Mary,
That why ye come tonight;
‘Spectin’ glimpse ‘ov me, like this
‘Wud turn ya’ heart to right?
Sensible is how ye was,
Yet be scurryin’ to find,
Such wisdom in yer harkin’,
To terms ye felt unkind.”

“Stop with ya’!  Stop with ya’!
Ya’ stubborn, briney goat!
T’wasn’t me who boarded ship
An’ failed to keep afloat!
Aye, the heaven hasn’t tempered,
The iron in yer will.
Judge me not Bartholomew,
One, amongst the krill!”

The bearded ghost then chuckled,
‘Til tears came to his eyes.
Proud he was to have such time,
To spend with feisty bride.
He then retreats in silence,
As he gleans from her distress,
That she torments with a secret,
To him, she must confess.

“"Bartholomew, me love,"
she embarks to make her plea,
"Ye left me young an' fruitful still,
yet no child ‘pon me knee.
I'm not as sturdy as y'think,
An' tremble at the thought;
deprived I am of husbandry,
my womb be saved fer naught."
Without ye then, I’ll ‘ave no spring,
No child to remind,
Of splendid days, brighter sun,
Me husband now divine.
I’m askin’ yer forgiveness,
And yer permit to pursue,
The kindly callers come to me,
In absence then, of you.”

“Yer speakin’ of the cooper, Tim,
Or Drew, the smithies’ hand?
Aye, better off with men who keep,
Their feet upon the land!
But Tim, I’m sadly knowin’ that,
His time is comin’ due;
An’ if a child be yer design,
There ‘ain’t no seeds in Drew.
I’ll not be one to keep ya’,
To an empty marriage bed.
Lord knows ye d’serve a finer life,
Than keepin’ with the dead.
But ev’rythin’ that’s in me,
Needs ye hurt no more.
Death ‘as grant me favored eyes,
I ‘adn’t known before.
I’ll come ‘ere, e’vry night,
An’ visit, yer desire.
Honest, I will always be,
Tendin’ yer require.
Love ‘been mine for days of flesh,
Then, for eternity.
Go then now, me Mary Dunn,
An’ make a life for thee.”

With courage she did leave that night,
With freedom then realized,
To pair with then, another mate,
Forsaking former ties.
Yet, on the night that followed,
And for thousands after, too,
She chose the comp’ny of the ghost,
Her lost Bartholomew.

Each night she braved nature’s serve,
Through rain, or cold, or sleet;
Imbibing ‘pon such moment’s time,
To feed on love so sweet.
Each minute spent, Bartholomew,
Rejoiced in hardships, laughter;
And only God and Time will know,
Such treasures in hereafter.

One night, amidst November freeze,
Mary staggered there,
Among the stones akin to home,
With her husband shared;
Lungs revolting, gurgling swell,
Mouth of staining red;
Contrasting earthly suffering,
Found solace ‘mongst the dead.
Fevered to delirium,
Wet, silver-tainted hair,
She settles ‘side familiar post
And finds him waiting there.
Struggles so to form a breath,
In hopes that she may speak,
Surrendering the day’s accounts;
But fears she is too weak.

“Aye, ‘tis time, me Mary Dunn,
A’time that ye come home.
Beyond this night, forevermore,
Y’ll nev’r be alone.
I wish that I could reach ya’ now,
An pull ya’ ‘cross the veil
That’s kept us ‘part these many years,
In spite of what’s prevailed.”

“So ‘lighten me, me whaler man,”
She coughed a pale reply.
“Why’d ya’ choose to lie to me,
To keep me as yo’r bride?
The cooper, he outlived us both,
Eight children sprung from Drew;
Ye lied to me for all these years,
What say, Bartholomew?”

“I feared me own accord, me lass,
From terms set forth above;
Ye cannot cross to waitin’ arms,
Unless ye go with love.
An’ I, but one love known to life,
This chance then rest with you
To be me escort to the Lord,
This, I say is true.
Should ye have taken ‘nother man,
I feared that ye’d be his;
An’ ye’d be taken up with him,
While I’d be left like this;
A-hoverin’ in between such space,
An’ time, by lonesome self;
While pinin’ for me heart of life,
Me Mary, ‘n no one else.”

“Aye, such flat’ry from  des’prate ghost;
It was my life ye know;
I seen ya’ for deceiver,
So many years ago.
But I choose’d to keep me vows to you,
‘Til heaven takes me in;
An’ if I granted sim’lar choice,
I’d choose the same a’gin’.

I’m dying love, I feel it now,
Me spirit needs to leave;
This body sez it’s had enough,
Me time is done, indeed.”
“Lay down, me lass, breath peace,
Lay down ‘n be there, still;
Our fate, as love, ‘pears destiny,
As both our lungs were filled.”

Mary Dunn surrendered then,
To callings of her spirit;
With forever longing arms of his,
She had no cause to fear it.
United once again, at last,
Of faith and love of few,
She crossed into Eternity,
With her love, Bartholomew!

This hand which moves and rides some voice is not mine.
I have given it over to you, young boy.

This is what makes it fly so, traveling out,
tripping along in dance of shape and sound.

I acknowledge your presence in this fashion.

You tell me by messages,
beaming out the back of your head,
you are the very boy who has waited an eternity
at some upper railing.

You sit and peer through the spaces,
down the twisted stair.

Your hands, they grip the vertical rail.
Silent. Silent. Waiting you.

Let this right hand of mine be your secret voice.
Let this scrawl and scratch be your gravelly tongue—
ick-nicking, ga-chooing, click and stutter.

What language may I shape for our sake?
With you, may I follow, setting trail markers just so.

Will others come mistaking their ways for yours?

My hand is opening and opens wide.
I remember you. I am returning.
Let it be.

his voice was gravelly
my world was falling apart
g chords played to perfection
walls colliding with each other
he screamed 2 *******
people ran for cover
the devil to the microphone
they called him up
someone dialed 911
he started singing
gravelly voice
and people were transfixed

feldspar conglomerate
pyrite flakes sparkle
basalt backdrop
…granted, the granite
is liken to a gneiss
but placed near the soap or sand
it stands alone without chip-ability
raw uncut opal sending prisms dancing
against the distorted garnet plug –
her ruby lips shown bright
against the chert and ashen
speckles of flint
diamond twinkles
fall from topaz tear ducts
land softly on an emerald blazer
adorned with ruby buttons –
****** at the rock show
I marvel and the marble
and experience simpatico with a sapphire
while the tourmaline tantalizes my taste buds
sending me reeling into a radical thunder egg
as the agates flew *****-nilly
I groped blindly for a brick to steady myself
but instead fell hard onto the concrete
or was it asphalt….
either way, I may as have well been tarred and feathered
dipped in oil
and sent to the borax plant –

I poured myself out onto you, ink on vellum, your
skin gravelly, your alluring purr as smooth as silk and
soft as velvet, but as you folded me in your arms, my words
were lost like cries in the wind. For once, in a long time, I looked
at you, truly looked at you. I looked past the thin sheen of sweat at your
brow, like the dew on the blades of brown grass in the hot summer mornings.
I looked past the spray of freckles that dusted the tops of your cheeks and the bridge
of your nose, the freckles you loathed so much when you were just a boy because they
reminded you of flecks of glitter. I looked past the blonde locks that ringed your face like a
golden halo. Your hair is longer now, than it was, when we were kids, but I doubt that even
now, you’d let me braid it. I looked past all the little details I’d noticed about you
when we were growing up, and now, I saw a man with amethyst eyes and a
longing washed over me like a wave, pulling me down with the undertow.
I long to know this you as I once knew you, so well, like the back
of my own hand. So, with salt and foam, sweat and ink and in
every sweeping wave, drag me into those lovely amethyst
eyes. If the eyes truly are the windows to the soul,
pour in like a light and flood on the floor. Show me
what you’ve become, because, while I easily
recognize your flesh and outer
appearance, I long to know
you deeper than looks
could ever go.
Sink me,
show
me.

On the other side of the pumpkin patch there lies a narrow path.
Just a dent in the woods it seems, until getting closer you can see
The ground worn smooth by those who know to use it.
A short, dimly lit way through the thick brush opens out
And suddenly you find yourself on the gravelly bank of a railroad track.

The track cuts a swath through the dense forest that leans over it
As if jealous of the ground taken from its midst.
In each direction the track finally loses itself in a tunnel of trees,
Curving out of sight to reach some distant and unknown end.

When the train comes through, robbing the woods of the solace of silence,
I wonder where it’s bound, and how long it will take to get there.
The rhythmic clacking of the wheels, the endless line of boxcars,
The power and speed of the thing arrogantly announces itself to all--
Blind to any purpose or direction other than its own inarticulate need.

As the trains moves out of sight, I look again at the empty track
And wonder about the choices I have made.

the one positive aspect concerning Tucson’s blistering heat is what women wear on display are details one would never notice or think about if it were not right there in plain view an evident preference based solely on sweltering circumstance is no brassieres yet vogue goes beyond this lovable lapse women being fashion mindful arrange interesting medleys of flimsy diaphanous chemises various lengths of shorts thin-threaded summer dresses peculiar styles of tresses and fairly informal shoes or barefoot in essence everything about women’s wear in Tucson is noticeably informal revealing to the eye the barest facts that said there are those who fall under the dictate of Latin or Goth influences regardless how scorching the sun black is their uniform and finally the no matter what season or time of day hooded sweatshirt set and their hoodlum world

2

nightlife in Tucson is dull for a big city ex-resident several Friday evenings a month he visits plush bar arriving about 6 PM sitting at bar sipping 2 sometimes 3 drinks chatting with whomever then walking home about 7:30 - 8 and that is his rather sedate social life but on this particular Friday night with full moon 2 days away and Venus in his thoughts he thinks to go to sky bar outside monsoon rains are letting up opaque gray sky fragrance of creosote in air he looks at reflection in mirror feels deep depression

3

they are supposed to meet meant to meet destined fated to meet but they will not meet because there is a season for love in a person’s life but that time is gone it is too late for him too many hearts racing then erased lies deceptions disappointments nights alone under-appreciated without love so many years too much bridge under the water concerning her she is emotionally occupied her dog Sweeny on last legs a drawn-out too personal sadness to share besides she is not looking for an older man possibly a younger man who can ease her fears of loss and aging

4

the drainage system in Tucson is not well thought out when it rains it floods she wears Chaco sandals wading through puddles feeling intoxicated by scent of creosote after divorce 20 years ago she became drunken drugging **** until she adopted Sweeny changed her life it is like she is feeling relapse knowing Sweeny will be gone soon she cannot bear the thought decides to start at the Buffet total losers bar then work her way north up 4th Avenue a lot of ground to cover

5

an older man with loud gravelly voice and pink eye introduces himself as Frank says he moved here 25 years ago from New Jersey accent still intact orders ***** martini pulls out 6” KA-BAR military knife throatily grumbles i manage she decides she’s had enough of the Buffet does not finish drink decides to skip the Shanty Maloney’s O’Malley’s glances in the windows of Che”s sees gossipy **** she does not want to run into crosses 4th Avenue looks in the window at Plush sees self-important **** she does not want to run into crosses 4th Avenue again settling for seat at Sky bar

6

he gazes at her and his heart melts she is so lovely in subtle alternative demeanor it would be easy to admire her for rest of his life if he were female he’d want to look just like her but he sees she is not interested in him he looks away remembers the first step when he looks at a woman he searches for qualities that attract him because he wants to desire her yet this tendency creates an imbalance or disadvantage he is rendered weak to a woman’s beauty or whatever traits he idealizes self-realizing this propensity he turns his gaze away

7

she glances around large room notices him smiling at her eyes glance passed him she thinks he looks remotely familiar but the mustache appears ridiculously out of style too much character in his face he appears small maybe 5’8” or 9” probably drives a mini-***** just not her type whatever then she remembers the first step when she looks at a man she searches for qualities she is critical of because she wants to be impervious to his power

Where best to hide?
Where shall darkness and death abide?
Where to curl up and die alone?
To close my eyes,
Feel now.....more.
Dance as darkness embraces,
Spin the golden thread,
O’ thin despair.
Gravelly moans, pain streaked face,
Can I hide from this dance?
Backbones slowly bending,
Growing to earth,
Crawling soul,
Dread’s painful prance.
Sliver of flame,
Enveloped me, as a wreath,
Cries muffled,
Murmurs:
“Close eyes,
Feel now.....more,
Take this rite,
Bleed, feed me forevermore”
Overwhelmed, I close my eyes,
Overwhelmed, by that second,
That second my heart bursts and bleed,
That second my last, perfect breath is freed.
My crooked jaw,
Hangs free,
Sinister smiling,
At dread’s painful prance,
Thin despair,
Now this is how I dance.
                                             -**Firefly

Hello again, raven, I’m glad that you’re here,
It’s been far too long since you came.
I missed your black feathers, your gravelly call,
Becomes music when speaking my name.
Lean close, my bird, and tell me a secret,
Any, if yours, will do.
I’m too long alone, and the world is too guarded,
I’m pinning my hopes all on you.

Lean again, bird, and tell me some more,
Black feathers cantilevered,
Away and Away.
Drink of me,
And Drink of you,
As we think all the night into day.

I love the smell of gasoline
Blue flowers, and green neon lettering
Embarrassing-honest people
The words nocturnal, cavalier, and arable
Reading, reading is my second-best to humans,
Greek mythology, all mythology
Solving math equations, being surprised
The soft waves of my mother’s hair
All kinds of clouds and rain
Smooth fabrics, sharpened-pointy pencil-tips
Gravelly voices
      and exploring

-
You recount in detail the three old ladies
outside of the diner,
how you listened in as they  
described the sky to one another.
One traced the swirls of the clouds
with trembling hands;
you thought it so beautiful,
you could have cried.
-
The record player is spinning the blues
through a gravelly veil.
I anticipate the moment
you lift your hand to your heart,
and exclaim:
"I love this next line!"
-
Sadness creeps in late through
your living room window
like the moon diving
into the ocean;
a wave of grief consumes you,
violent and unforgiving,
as you pour us another glass of
cheap white wine.
-
I feel like a thief in the night
when I think about you
on the train ride home,
as city blocks turn to fields,
and back to blocks again.
There is something blasphemous
about seeing you so clear.

Amanda confidently made the first incision on the corpse, as she’d done many times before. Starting near the right shoulder, she pulled the scalpel through the layers of tissue down the middle of the abdomen. She bobbed her head as she worked, listening to Where Did the Party Go by Fall Out Boy. The pathologist turned away from the body and pushed her long black hair out of her hands with her wrist. Taking her gloves off, she turned the **** on her speaker. “My old aches become new again, my old friends become exes again…” She hummed the tune while securing her locks in a ponytail. Pausing, she picked up her phone and rewinded the music. She could have sworn she Patrick Stump sing the words, “Woah, where did the body go?” Listening closer this time, she started the song. “Woah, where did the party go?” played through the speaker. She shook her head and took another sip of her coffee.
She gazed at the ceiling, bright lights blinding her suddenly. “Jordan!” She waited for a reply. Nothing. She called again. Flustered, she sighed and looked over at the schedule pinned to the wall. Jordan wasn’t scheduled today, Amanda was the only one. “Then why did the lights- Never mind.” She was obviously just tired. Tugging on another pair of gloves, she picked up a pair of forceps and a scalpel and turned back towards the body. It was gone! She looked behind and underneath the table, thinking it had fallen. It wasn’t there. “****! How am I going to explain this to the family?”
“You can’t.” She jumped at the deep, gravelly voice. “Wh-who are you?” she asked with uncertainty. Amanda was too afraid to look him in the face yet. “That’s not important,” the voice replied. “We need you to come with us.”
“We?” She looked towards the direction of the voice. There were thirteen men in black suits with dark shades standing in formation at the door. “Why? Will you tell me where the body is?”
“Just follow us, ma’am. We’ll explain everything in the car.” She followed them out the door. The man who spoke led her to a black Range Rover with extremely tinted windows. Once they were in the car, the man introduced himself. “I’m Peter C. Schultz. I work with the MIB.”
“MIB? Like in that movie with Will Smith?” She sounded confused.
“Exactly. But we don’t get laser guns.” He smiled, hoping to earn her trust.
She laughed softly and looked out the window. “So was he an alien?”
“Possibly. The craft seems to have removed the body, sensing alien DNA in the area.” Peter looked over his shoulder, quickly pulled out of the parking spot and turned onto the highway. Amanda still wasn’t sure if she was awake. Aliens? MIB? A disappearing body? What if they had taken her instead? All types of thoughts swirled through her head.
They arrived at a large, nondescript building. She hopped out of the range rover and shut her door. The men lead her into the building and down the hall to an interrogation room.
“So, Ms. Browne, tell me. Did you notice any strange noises or lights at the time the body “Um. Yeah, yeah, uh, there was. I was listening to music and the lyrics sounded different. I replayed the track and it sounded normal. There was also a bright flash of light right before I noticed the body was gone. I thought it was my assistant, but they didn’t weren’t on the schedule.”
“We’ve heard of the lyrics changing before. The lights are different, they don’t usually come that close.” Peter sighed.
“Before? You mean to tell me people’s bodies have been stolen by aliens before? What the hell?!? Why doesn’t the government tell us these things?” She started to panic.
“Calm down, Ms. Browne. The MIB has it all under control. Amanda stared him in the eyes. “Really? Because there are BODIES missing! That doesn’t seem under control!” She was yelling at this point.
Peter took a step towards her. She continued to glare at him. All of a sudden, his eyes went black. Amanda was confused. This had to be a dream. A lizard like tongue flicked out of Peter’s mouth. Blood poured out of his mouth and dribbled down his chin. She screamed and tried to run. A hand with sharp long nails and slender blue fingers came up from behind her shoulder and covered her mouth. She was instantly silenced. Another hand pushed her back to her chair, the alien body pressing against her. She forcibly sat down. The hands let go of her. The terrified pathologist tried to scream but didn’t have the ability to even whisper. Peter’s form changed into a tall, blue, thin body with disproportionately long arms and neck. She shook from head to toe, when suddenly she heard a strange voice in her mind. It spoke in alien tongue but she could somehow understand it. It said, “Look into the mirror placed in front of you. Be terrified of what you see and know it is your truth.” With shaky hands, she picked up the piece of reflective glass lying in front of her. Bringing it to her face, she looked at the aliens and then herself. She stared back into cold black eyes. She opened her mouth and could see the lizard tongue curled up between her sharp, pointed teeth. She expected to be scared, but instead felt strangely content. She noticed a new hunger awakening from deep inside her. Amanda stood up and walked over to the aliens. Her own kind. She spoke in the native alien language she now had a name for, Kewalanaei. “Do you have anymore of the body left? I need flesh.” Peter grinned toothily and led her into a room where hundreds of bodies lay. They feasted.

The static havoc
In my attic
Is automatic
And so emphatic
Excruciating pain
Roosting in rain
Boosting the grain
But flooding my lane

While playing cosmic roulette
I'm charged a clockwise debt
Paid by traveling to my death
Like anthrax on Amtrak
The FBI can't track
So the decay stacks
Turning everything black

Something's amiss
In this blinding abyss
That grabs my wrist
And drains my bliss
So I seek shelter
But get peltered
Helter skelter
By the belters

Tired of lies
Afraid I'll die
I see your eyes
As a sweet surprise
Then watch paint dry
Unlike the tears I cry
From the fear inside
You'll hurt my pride

Honestly
You harvest me
Until you're part of me
Making it hard to see
Where I'll be
If you flee
From my plea
And just leave

So I continue wheeling
To my glass ceiling
In need of timely healing
I forget my frightened feeling
And turn to hope
Until you say nope
A slippery *****
With which I can't cope

I thought I was saved
Instead I feel shame
From this disgraceful game
Called you don't feel the same
Which has gotten me lost
Frozen in frost
The coldest cost
As garbage tossed

You kindly offer your friendship
Unable to kiss my friend's lips
Unable to grab my friend's hips
Unable to let myself slip
I find something profound
Traveling on ground
With you around
Safe and sound

You offer insight
Increasing my might
By seeing the light
When you are right
You help me fight
My perilous plight
By making pain slight
Removing my fright

My perception of you is traveling
On this road that is gravelly
I once desired you madly
Now others have had me
But that doesn't change when I'm lonely
I wish you would hold me
Unable to forsake the old me
I just continue traveling coldly

I don't ask for much
-- or maybe I do.
Ok, so, I ask for a lot.
-- or sometimes not enough.
I ask for the in-betweens,
the flecks of desire in your eyes,
your hand squeezing into mine.
I beg for the silent promises,
the i-love-you's without words,
the I've-waited-so-long kisses,
and the laughter that falls within.
I seek out, instinctively, the warmth of your hugs,
The gravelly smooth low quality of your voice,
And that darling half smile I hold so dear.
I ask for nothing,
and yet I ask everything of you.
I coax it from you with a simple slip of the tongue.
I ache and need and want..
to give and to take;
I ask for too much and say nothing at all,
I just lie here in bed, and continue to fall.

Densely fogged
under caked make-up from yesterday's tears
fakely disguised beneath the crowd
of masochists and nonbelievers

Hearts plead and bleed as one
based upon no one at all
seething fear pounded through fists of rage
anguish of lost hopes and lost causes

Where do I go
for whom do I show
should I grieve
for a land that is no more than make believe?

Despairing and looking for cheap cigarettes
they gather on their gravelly haven
spurning the world and hating
what it's become
nothing but **** and ***

Those who came before us
naive double standards fearing our new status
the putrid stench of change clings to our chains
burdened by the nonbelievers

Where do I go
for whom do I show
should I make believe
in the world we grieve

do the bad days outweigh the good
when you speak into the corner of my collarbone?
                                                     ­                         "sometimes it hurts to be this damaged."
could i whisk you up in the Kwanzan cherry blooms
though your body still feels imbued with winter?
                                                                ­             "i've never met someone so afraid to be open."
must i crave the insatiable taste of salt,
gravelly crumbles of your encumbrance?
                                                                ­           "i love this moment, with you and me, right here."

                                                        ­                                     (in the morning, i am still syrupy stuck
                                                           ­                                  and the sequestering sun washes me off.
                                                            ­                                 clean from the ***** taste
                                                                ­                             that slipped off my sordid soliloquies
                                                     ­                                        into submissively diffident lobes.

                                                         ­                                     emotional adiposity
                                                       ­                                       i'd love to turn myself off
                                                             ­                                 whenever you're near)

Heavy gray clouds battle for control of the supple trees,

which bend under the will of the wind,

leaves whipping and flickering their bright undersides,

like the dresses of frantic Spanish dancers;

pale pulp squishes between her toes,

the grapes bursting under the weight of

eighteen-year-old feet - both the fruit

and the flesh are soft and ripe

and smell of sugar in the sun;

the gray sea licks wildly at the gravelly shore,

while her fire-red locks twist and tangle in the wind.

bring her an ensemble,
brioche and cafe au lait
'À la manière des Français'

an unexpected surprise,
on a weekend
Sunday-in-bed-celebration

the messenger, me,
recommends  le dunkin',
insertion of the bread into
the morning liqueur pre-sipping

"I don't like wet bread"

she states officially,
in tone strident and reproving,
even gravelly gravitas-aly,
and to me-self, inside thinking,
softee softee...

what other dark secrets doth this ***** harbor?

march 26 2017 10:11 am

Boasting coffins thick and cushiony as wombs,
Pay last respects; their waxen image so
Still, reprimands against motion – their tombs.
Pirouette darkly against the moon, on we go.*
Penny Leavitt, 2013

She walked and talked the boards – a gravelly
Voice chasing the arts among the vagaries of
Melody and meter and the colors of balloons.

Penelope Marguerite – seven syllables to sway
The boldest of characters in the most honored
Stories to be seen and heard on stage.

The little Shorewood house – known to groups,
Nay herds of neighborhood critters and their
Off-spring – where Penny dwells.

“I hear the pulse of you,” she wrote, “solemn-
Sweet pipes of the *****” – and abruptly shook
Herself up and got on with it.

That unmistakable pony-tail in strands of gray
Marched with precision through grocery aisles –
Cat food in cart and lottery ticket in hand.

In the class notebook, she penned with care
The tales of a teenaged temptress, “sauntering
Sexily, swinging svelte lissome *****.”

Co-poets often thought her lost – she travelling
Unannounced to Montreal or Chicago – but
She bore the title of grandmother proudly.

Penny gave her heart to whoever needed it –
Not that she lost it – as snippets of amazement
And humility took their places elsewhere.

“This is what grandmas hope for," she wished
For the face of nature to reveal its magical
qualities to her grandson.

Age and its surprises were not immune to
Penny’s pen; she was an uncanny student of
The human story.

“We pass those who have gone before us;”
She wrote. “We become the lassoed souls
Of a younger, more agile dream.”

Pope said to act well our parts; there all the
Honour lies – Penny did so, and then some –
“We hold our faltering shadows high.”

There once was a poet named Benny,
Who could write a limerick like any.
It might have a word,
Unique or absurd,
But could not match those of our Penny!



© Lewis Bosworth, April 2017