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. 

Down To the Sea

Tacking

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.   

again

Bluebird

Flashing red lights  

yellow

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

Bluebirds

reflected in her

black-eyed Susan

shades.

We take to the sidewalk

for a better look at

tempera

sunflowers splashing

crooked blue houses

bending the thin

stems of front walks

that paper the cove

above the seats

if there were any

seats

driver stowing the lift

waving goodbye, eyeing

the idling queue.

You scissor a pretty

young woman with love

she’s waving back  

waltzing

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

Bluebird.