Sunday, February 28, 2010

Weekly Worded

















Iron clad skies lay siege to the valley.
Storms troop in from the north.
A whiteout insists on surrender

but you won’t quit sweeping the porch,
your cheeks ruddy as banked embers.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

Weekly Worded


















Research

The idea required somebody
older and if not wiser
at least less fastidious
about disappointment.
I volunteered.

They placed a stack of folders
in my outstretched hands
and sent me home early.
I spent the entire weekend
avoiding the task,

carrying the folders from room
to room, setting them on the table
while I ate, placing them in the chair
beside me while I watched the television
and even taking them to bed.

On Monday everyone wanted to know
what I thought. I told them
I could live with it.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Weekly Worded














Explaining Baby Moons


His auto eroticism begins
when he pulls into the driveway,
hot under the hood after a long drive.

He’ll shut the engine off, listen
to its ticks as if they were sighs,
a bucket of soap already coupling

with the dirt. Unwinding the hose
to rinse the car, he’ll flash
on that last pothole and shudder,

how close he came to ruining everything.
When he inspects the wheels and fenders
they’ll be wet so he can chart

the old dimples and dents
he's memorized like constellations,
anticipating the next disaster.

He’ll wax nostalgic -- ah, 1965,
polishing chrome and cleaning glass
until all that’s left is to step back

and see himself in his pleasure.

Monday, February 8, 2010

Weekly Worded

















Jerome David S.

For half his life he got it backwards,
hiding out so nobody could ask
what was going on inside him.

He was like a rural mailbox
with the outgoing flag
permanently disabled.

Half a century of seclusion
because he invented a boy
that talked too much.

Said things in such a way
people were shocked
and at the same time curious

so the real Jerome lived
as if he were a character
while the boy he created

that wore his innocence
under a goddam red hunting hat
still lives a full New Yorker’s life.