The fox is not an evil kind.
She's just mostly misunderstood.
She's not a dangerous canine
And at times she can be quite good.

You've heard she raids the chicken coop.
That's certainly baneful indeed,
But that's so much water soup,
'Cause feathers make her sneeze!

You've heard that she's conniving,
But she tells me it's not true,
She is just a fun-loving thing,
Who has a heart that is true blue.

She loves the wind's feel on her face.
She's really a country girl.
Her favorite pastime is chase,
Though she's quite elegant in pearls.

But she also likes to snuggle.
That's one subject we both agree.
I'm glad she chose me to nuzzle,
When you're a hound dog, such as me.

I know Lonely Street.
I’ve walked its beaches,
Stared mindlessly at
Friend television.
I’ve filled afternoons
With sips of coffee.

I know all of the
Hiding places there:
Bars with cement floors,
Noisy ceiling fans;
City libraries;
Movie theaters.

There is no color
Here on Lonely Street -
Only replicas
Of houses ashen.
There is no music -
Reiteration.

I know its benches,
Where I tease pigeons
With my popcorn and
Chitter at tree rats,
Watching worlds go by,
Waiting for passage.

I know this safe place,
This sanctuary,
This holy sector,
This respite from feeling,
Where any feeling
Feels likes it's torture.

So, I hide or seek
Anonymity.

each time
you are a new lover,
i go back and kiss stars
the way i thought i could
and lost
the last time

each time
you are a new lover,
spoken words become lies -
not expressing feelings
i had
as before

each time
you are a new lover,
and i forget your touch,
your breath against my skin,
your smell
you once had

each time
you are a new lover

i am a leaf,
   caught in passion's wind.
      i can only feel myself
         being tossed into the air,
      cast from current to current,
   from elation to remorse,
      jealousy to disappointment,
        concern to misgivings,
     anxiety to grief to ardor.

                         i'm lifted into the air
                            and then
banged to the ground.

   she is dangerous.

      she moves too easily into my being.

i am a leaf.

   i have no will.

When I was a kid,
My favorite place in the world
Was a park bench.

I used to sit at the end of the bench,
   Dangling my feet,
      Pretending to drive mother-with-child and
         Man-with-newspaper to their appointed destinations.

There, my friends and I spent hours
Playing forts,
   And robber-in-jail,
      And church.

And, though my friends never complained,
I'm sure they never appreciated that wonder
Spot, as much as I did.

Often, I would do my homework on a park bench.
At other times, I would lay down and
Look up through the trees
Talking with Johnny Mac about life and girls.

So, it shouldn't surprise you that I asked my sweetheart
To marry me on a park bench,
Like the one I grew up with,
Or that I should go THERE, when my wife died.

Today, I tease pigeons with popcorn
And swap stories heard a hundred times before.

I'm happy.

I'm glad to have had such memories.
And I'm glad to have had the feeling
Of a park bench.

I remember when my mother
Would get angry with me
And I would escape to a tall pecan tree.

I always imagined my mother screaming,
"Where is my dear boy?
He has left and I never got a chance to tell
Him how much I love him."

My mother never did.

So, I stayed up there, watching man-next-door
Mow the lawn or the postman make his rounds.

And eventually,
   I would sink into the strong, loving arms of that tree.
The tree never told me I was bad.
   It never made demands on me.
      It was always nurturing and caring -
         Ever gently rocking.

When I think of the greatest gift
   My child has given me
      It's the moments that she crawls into my lap
         And rests her head against me.

I've become a tree.

A voice travels
   On summer's stillness,
      Clamoring
         Against injustice
            Echoing
               Across the valley,
         But every
      One is so guilty
   Of something,
So, no one listens.

He is joined
   In his bemoanings,
      By lone wolf
    Atop a nearby ridge,
But no one listens.