Wednesday, April 22, 2015

on the wing

Passing Time 

Damon draws my coffee Thursday
afternoons, leaves a hat band of white
space at the top for cream, dashes off
the galaxy of a cookie to balance
this still life.  Sometimes he adds a yawning

wing back chair in the lower left hand
corner, yellow, straight from the tube
that appears to float in space between
a scumble of rug and gunmetal smudge

passing overhead, framed in skylight
panes, March toning pages of a book
lovingly rendered in the rough
sketch of my hands, enameled
medallions of reading glasses fixing

two languid women printing fat
slices of blood orange on stem ware
blue-tipped match heads of students
flaring here and there, a docent

dozing on his break, tight smile of blue
blazer beholding the rise and fall
of a vast landscape, time passing
even for the Van Gogh waiting  
for me upstairs, deep veins clogged

with wet pigment, passing time
on a wall still waiting for a cure
spending what’s left of mine waltzing
a gaze across William Merritt Chase

himself, forever emerging from shadow
snowy petals of a flower fresh in his lapel
eyes piercing above the great outstretched
wings of moustache, searching my face
in the final moments before flight. 

Thursday, April 16, 2015

Down To the Sea


Keel laid years ago, deck
where we stand at night naming
stars, worn salt
smooth and clocked
by the shadow of the mast
our ship, trailing
veils of memory, smartly
parting swell, tacking
true from high up in the rigging
where I mend a sail
with the thread of a tune
while you pitch seams, humming
something old and familiar.   

Tuesday, April 14, 2015



Flashing red lights  
unlike yellow daylilies
but more like asters
on the last day
of school, spring
blowing blues harp
through open windows
for a lady in a Lincoln
reflected in her
black-eyed Susan

We take to the sidewalk
for a better look at
sunflowers splashing
crooked blue houses
bending the thin
stems of front walks
that paper the cove
above the seats
if there were any
driver stowing the lift
waving goodbye, eyeing
the idling queue.

You scissor a pretty
young woman with love
she’s waving back  
your ball and chain
backpack, the dog
pretending not to hear
the weary sigh
of the wheelchair
watching empty
from the front porch
as we take back
to the street
receding in the fisheye
mirror gleam of the