Masks

Thieves

Last night I bore my hands in the manner

Of a mutual friend, let’s call him Guy

A man who kneads air to make a point

Casts handfuls of hymnal dust to the winds

When words alone are not enough or hewn

Rough, a soothing courtliness to wear down

Finning dorsal flashing, time worn gestures

You graced with proper attribution, words

Rendered by a languid orchestration

Of Mona Lisa’s shameless smile stifled

Seconds before the more famous one and

A merry jig of cheek and brow by way  

Of your old Aunt Lib.  George Clooney then, the

Crinkled grin, self-deprecation leavened

With a sly sense of imminent mischief

Your gauzy skirt perhaps snagged and lifted

From behind in a maneuver lifted

From a cane twirling Little Tramp but

For a forthright dressing down by a no

Nonsense Kate Hepburn the Gerald Ford in

Me should have seen coming, my mugging leer

Reminding you of no one so much as

Esteban, our ingratiating pool-

Side bar keep at the Royal Catalonia

Tulum.  Your mother, my father, sensible

People that they were, sat silent witness

Ready to step in, infuriating

Qualities we wear like puckered old scars.  

Ukraine, I crane

Ukrainian Waitress at the Pigeon Forge Chop House

Please don’t judge us solely

on our dinner selections

loaded Idaho baked potatoes

versus

heart smart rice pilaf

crocked French onion soup

over

full orders of spicy Buffalo chicken wings

though on second thought

our nagging lamentations

over second guessed choices
photo spreads 

of this or that or the other thing 
blinding glare from slicky-slack

laminated menus-for-dummies

may be a revelation

that beats Gallup, Harris, even Nate Silver. 

Latvian or Polish, maybe Czech

but what kind of arcane

global department of weeding shunts

youth from former Soviet satellite states

to places like:
Branson, Missouri or Pigeon Forge, Tennessee or

the Wind Jammer Restaurant in Copper Harbor, Michigan

where a young woman fresh

from mainland China once took 
our order, unrelenting 
smiles on all faces

smiles for the menu

smiles for each other

smiles for the large woman inching

through the restroom door marked “Gulls”

smiles for the low ceilinged
gunmetal gray clouds

soldiering in from Superior

smiles for four old Finns gumming

pillowy cinnamon buns

smiles for the pair of lenses

missing from the stylish frames

on the beaming face

of our Mandarin speaking waitress

who, as it happened, was

weeks away from wrapping

up a summer stint in the Upper Peninsula

on her way to wintering

over in Chicago

a distinction without

much of a difference. 

“Ukrainian” you say

emphasis on the second

syllable, leveling me with a 2 x 4 
gaze, spade 
of European fatalism

furrowing your brow

“Lviv”, I wager
“seems nice”

followed by a breathless

drive-by of recent Ukrainian history:

a Russian father

perforated borders

a sister in Donetsk

you worry about day and night

here beneath the Aurora Borealis 
caloric motel gag 
of the Smoky Mountain foothills.

What is your opinion of Dolly Parton?

Have you toured the Titanic?

Do you ever get the itch

to stroll the Creation Museum?

questions I would like to ask 
but don’t. Instead 
I order some wine

the Chop House being

the only place around 
to get it by the glass

owing to Byzantine Baptist 
blue laws

that allow
should the mood take hold
one to buy a Mason jar

of pure Tennessee 
moonshine likker. 

“Santa Fe” I say

by way of suggestion

when your tenure here is up

but your heart

seems to be set on Denver. 

Oh well, at least it’s not

the U.P., I think as I take

my first sip
a toast and a smile

for a Slavic expat 
from a famished native. 

Who Gives A Hoot?

Screech Owl

You weren’t fooled

One minute

Late Friday evening  

By uncanny calls to love

Issuing from Audubon’s mobile app

Wise, it turns out

To calibrations

Distinguishing chuffed

Mild Annoyance

From head turning

Cries of Alarm! 

Nor were you deceived

In the least by Stan Getz

Filtering soft and sweet

Through an open window.

You saw right through

My Italian sandals

To piebald Midwestern

Provincialism, eggs  

Doused in catsup  

Playing Lennie

In a local production

of

Of Mice and Men

A mere dream but

One that died hard. 

You may have been

Momentarily flummoxed

By certain discrepancies

In my curriculum vitae

Errors of omission

You may rest

Assured can be explained

By the light

Of a Hunters Moon.

But you weren’t taken in

By the band of tiny angels

Descending to bear me

Home on a thousand

Pairs of gossamer wings

Straining at the tented points

Of all those gathers, gazing

Up in silent reproach

At my receding wan grin. 

I was so sure you’d fall

For the one about

The Romanov heiress who

But for the want

Of your bank account information

Would gladly cut you

In for half her share

Of Faberge Eggs

Failing to take

Into account the speckled clutch

You guard with murderous

Tenacity. 

No rube

No turnip

From a turnip cart

No bigger than a pint jar

Enough to sit

On the front porch

Tucked into shadows

Running a finger around

The rim of this glass

Listening for your call

The one that snookered me

Thinking I’d heard the cry of a loon.