Puff Of Smoke Poems

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.

My friend brought glow sticks

to hand out with the Halloween candy.

They might have been old,

leftovers from some long ago party.

This is a note to you,

the kid who came back on Halloween night

in the thick of trick or treating

to say that the glow stick we gave

you didn’t glow.

You said it calmly

As if certain we’d want to know.

There are flashes, moments when a stranger’s

whole life is illuminated for all to see.

Little girl, I wanted to say,

Your life will turn out fine.

Instead, I handed you another

and made sure this one shined.

Thank you to other mothers all over town,

rushing through dinners of grilled cheese

and soup. Spooning warmth into

wriggling children. Wrestling tiny bodies

into masks and coats,

headdresses and long underwear,

insisting the littlest Spiderman

needs mittens.

A round of applause and a superhero cape

for each and every one of us,

who wear this costume for years.

If we’re lucky, we wear it for years.

If we’re lucky, we wear it with joy.

After the holiday, and a decade or two,

the real trick is to smile

when it’s time to pack that costume away.

To see that it’s time

they want to be their own superhero.

Look around

after their whirlwind exit.

The floor is littered with candy corn and glitter.

Sneak a candy bar and answer the door

to meet the next treat at the threshold.

knocked on the roof

or tossed trees to get our attention.

Here, steady rain against the windows.

All night, the leaves left

while we lay safe in bed and listened.

North wind dreamed of journeys, suitcases.