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late summer
flowering quince tree—
unless it’s a crabapple—
Whoever it is, who once
was springtime’s pink queen
now sends a scatter of yellow leaves
to brush across my notebook

some days you have
the lightness of hand
to make a soufflé
or time to knead bread, set it to rise
Other days, peanut butter on saltines.

It’s all food.

Just so with art—
In the same way,
some days you may conjure
a poem, a story, a painting, a song
Other days, you get one moment
when your eyes
are open

today it was you,
brown and dappled deer,
strolling slowly across the side street
next to the quiet bricks
of the fire station

awake before dawn
crickets in the garden still cricketing
at work and play in the mums

in a few hours, laughter
talk and noise and questions
a new school year

Before all that,
breathe.
I will too.
Before we begin
let’s spend an hour
quieter than crickets

Sometimes,
the startling surprise
is only
a squirrel
a jogger
a fallen tree branch

Take a breath.
Look before you bark.

Though this is such a small town
the whole world passes by
in the mornings as we walk
I have been each of you—
The determined and driving not quite grimly East directly into the morning sun
And you, disheveled sleepy man shuffling with a cardboard box under one arm and a cigarette in your free hand
And I’ve been you, little mama, hair pulled back as you fold and stack your yard sale treasures
All of us awake early
before midday heat that flattens all action
flattens even the impulse to action
Today, let us each relax
even revel into
Who you are at this moment
Whoever you may be
Now, I’m going home to write a poem about you
after I move our chairs into cool shade.

In the alley behind
those raggedy apartments–
door-sized broken mirror
leans against the dumpster
Enough!
As if they needed
any more
of your bad luck

he forgets, then forgets
that he forgot

Do you remember?
is the forbidden phrase

the list of things forgotten—
broken window, unpaid bills,
car accidents, names—all high
on the long, long list
of things I wrote down
looked at, wondered, worried

like kindergarten or an old song
that’s all long ago
now the forgotten things
unwritten
go out into a field
scatter themselves
breed wildflowers or weeds
depending on time of day
or who is looking out the window

Someday, I’ll gather them up
as many as I can carry
as many as I remember
a huge bouquet of incident and echo
I’ll toss back to the ocean
to drift or sink
be forgotten again
to wait for Vishnu
asleep on the waves

You give the topic—
I asked for a poem about
being a sidewalk poet
When the poet handed it back,
I felt that true poem tingle

My friend said, with authority
Poems are supposed to be Read Out Loud
so I let him, holding out this freshly-hatched magic.
All was well until he finished and asked the air
Well, what does that even mean?

It means that for a minute
I lost my daily battle to be
more open-minded and forgiving
towards those who see the world
differently than me

It Means It’s A Poem,
is what I wanted to shout
but didn’t

one year, it was a huge barn spider
above the back deck door

This year’s spider
built her web
between the clay pot of coleus
and the shady corner
of the porch railing

housekeeping in summer
is mostly sweeping cobwebs
from chairs, tables, porch railings
to keep away the whisper of webs
and the skittery feel of it on skin
but always, there’s one spider I see
whose hard work, though
bloodthirsty
reminds me of Charlotte despite myself
This year’s web is decorated with dropped
orange petals from the hanging begonia
Breeze and petals waft through her work
beside me as I write her poem