Puff Of Smoke Poems

Buy crusty French bread

on your way home from the lawyer.

Play music while you slice the baguette

into fewer slices than years you were married.

Chop up tomatoes, olives, garlic,

oregano, memories and red peppers

in any combination you choose.

The mixture will be perfect, which proves

you can make good decisions.

Pour strong olive oil

over food that

behaves so rationally

you would kiss it

if it wasn’t dinner.

Stir.

Heap spoonfuls onto the bread

like a person who has never been stingy with love.

My neighbor is at it again,

his leaf blower buzzing

as he vacuums nature.

I want to take the leaf blower out of his hands,

tell him with his crew cut

and neatly pressed jeans

To let the leaves be indolent teens who nap all day

and race around on windy nights

wild to escape their fate,

instead of obedient recruits waiting at the curb

huddled with their kind.

I want to remind him that

in the morning we’ll be even again:

Leaves covering both our yards

His will lose their way, run with the wrong crowd,

get dizzy, fall down and sleep wherever they land.

Impossible to steer, but lovely

could describe a child or a ship,

a hot air balloon

or a poem every day.

The Encyclopedia of the Exquisite

is the title of the book

tossed among the tattered romances

on the free table at the library.

The page you opened to read:

“In truth, the hot air balloon

was lovely but impossible to steer.”

which describes more  than this unlikely book

finding your harried hands.

Take comfort in messages that

rise and travel and land, eventually.

Put down those tightly-clutched maps.

Instead of plotting course corrections

deep into every night,

notice how the stars glow as you glide by.

Call this life what you’ve suspected for some time:

Impossible to steer, but lovely.

Because when you woke up,

you didn’t know this day

would hold so much more than you could carry

and

because the load

is full of such foolish things:

Groceries and briefcases,

cough drops and tissues,

brown chickens pecking at the side of the road

so silly and industrious that the comparison

falls into your hands

and becomes one more thing to carry.

Words fizzing off the top of your head.

We text all night

watching colors shift on the map–

You at a dorm party,

me at the kitchen table

where you learned to eat calamari

and do long division.

Texts are better than voices tonight.

One sentimental comment

about this, your first vote,

would turn you sullen or silent.

I’m learning—slowly—

To be thankful for what IS.

Tonight, I’m not thankful for

free and democratic elections

or even for raising a child who votes.

Tonight I’m thankful for cell phones.

The gift is these disembodied words

we can trade as we focus on Ohio, Nevada,

And Florida—especially Florida–

a state like you–

Long and slender

and too close to call.

It’s finally here

The cold, frosted air ready

To catch the votes we cast.

A nation of

Ever-hopeful fishermen

Casting and casting again

Not knowing yet,

At the start of this day,

Whether we’ll end tonight

Toasting the one we landed

Or reminiscing

About the one that got away.

but perhaps there are small mysteries

chewing all night in the walls.

That tapping at the windows

could be rain

or some code we can’t transcribe—

The world, trying to send us a message.

In that case,

the harder it rains must mean

there’s so much more

the world wants to say.

Last night, the sound softened.

Rain turned into the season’s first snow.

We fell asleep puzzling over the translation.

Daylight Saving Time

makes me wonder

what else we could save

by turning the clock back.