Friday, December 20, 2013

Work, revised

View From An Arlington Balcony

A rumpled horizon sets to work
as the sun goes down dividing my view

shouldering the rectangle balanced 
lightly on the Chesapeake, a slice
of seaboard peeled back from fretting skies

Reagan International resonating
under finger plucked flight paths, tuned taut.

Running headlong, head down, elbow
on this leg cradling all those marbled
targets, flowing relieved into the bay.

Capital dome a pointy dunce cap
radiating monkey shines, Washington

Monument on the mend, bolted into
a halo brace, Macallen’s on ice
beading on the rail line up perfectly

with only a slight shift of my chair while
tree top choppers worry all bejesus

out of a blameless Potomac, whistling
softly as it hurries past it’s southern
shore, a dark bruise in our constellation. 




Wednesday, December 11, 2013

We all use plumbing

Breaking News

Waiting at the counter for a set screw
I couldn’t help but overhear the guy
next to me buying a pair of threaded
PVC cleanout caps admit he was
that guy, the local television
personality Whozits from News
At Six or maybe Eleven, BREAKING
NEWS! by the looks of him, not the mundane  
kind, you know, a Shelby Township woman’s
lonely crusade to put angels on the
ballot, the Wixom man who claims drones
spy on his tree blind north of Rose City. 

Winded cameraman on his heel, framed
but just barely, bullying his way
into a non-descript Keego Harbor
strip mall pain clinic, man in a lab coat
hiding behind a manila file
folder, his Kitty Hawk comb over
lifting in flight above endless dunes
of no comment no comment no comment.

On our way out I held the door, clutching
my set screw in the other hand.  He
cradled his cleanout caps and fumbled
with his keys then asked me if I knew
where he’d parked his truck.  In hindsight a
rhetorical question, but I sped
away, cap brim pulled down over my eyes
silently mouthing those two familiar
words that precede the weather report. 

Thursday, December 5, 2013

So many books

Reading List

Later on, after the dishwasher is filled,
dog walked, mail posted, magazines sorted,
bed/some semblance of sense/a few calls made:

doctor, chimney guy, Blue Cross Blue Shield

I’ll free up a spare moment to add
The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt to the list
of books read I’ve kept these past few years
a satisfying snap for every entry
like biting down on a marrow bone like

breaking a seized nut with an offset wrench.

I will resist the urge to record my
college textbooks, titles long forgotten
save for orphaned words such as Issues and
Contemporary.  I won’t include those
T.V. Guides with their Byzantine layout
and Lilliput font or the stack of Hardy
adventures wolfed down like salty snacks. 

Christ the Readers Digests’ alone would

require their own special section,
back issues from 1961
moldering swollen during those sultry
Tennessee summers, a sage piece by
Art Linkletter or Laughter Is The Best
Medicine to while away the still
afternoon’s, relieved only by the bleat
of the front porch swing and the X-ray buzz
of cicadas. 

Maybe the laundry and the fallen leaves

won’t mind if I take five minutes to add
Franklin E. Meyer’s Me and Caleb and
The Borrowers, by Mary Norton
reminding me, how could I forget? of
E.B. White, Mark Twain and Marvel Comics  
not to mention countless cereal
boxes, album jackets and the liner
notes concealed within.  But reading the dogs
face, a forlorn sphinx haunting an empty
bowl, I think I’d best add her name first

hoping to avoid a bloody awful

savaging when she writes her memoirs.