A man with rose colored glasses
has no wallet but he stands in line
for coffee and scone.
I'm going to look for it,
he tells me.
He has people meeting him shortly.
He leaves to sit down.

My List of Grievances

have not been properly aired
nor have they been written and mailed
to the appropriate officials.
Nevertheless,
I have them.
You and I have not much time
left
After this
we will be done and there
won't be much left
I don't work well with
ultimatum. . . I've got no threats
You've got to make good on those
can't do that well
I've just got to say it, without the proper postage
without going through the appropriate channels.
This is it.

It Escaped My Attention

That we've been moving in the same circles that offer nothing but sliced butter pats
on the back
When the time comes to step off of the carousel my shoes will be especially heavy
handed was my approach to getting in
Please hand me my parasol quickly give me my dignity back
the laces of my heavy shoes are caught in the grooves

Someone is Without a Sunday

I asked what time it was on sunday there
and wondered if there was someone not familiar with sunday somewhere.

I Want Hair Like the Ronettes

Beehived and all shiny
with maybe like a curl in the back,
just hanging off my shoulder
all cute like, you know?

I don't like to talk about it.
It's my job and no one likes to talk about their job
My craft is secretive and frightened by strangers.
The words are just there
the ideas just arrive
in time for the lunch special
and they leave in time for the bill

Littered streets and deserted
sidewalks. I walk them
thinking of you.
The wind blows through
my hair, its fingers touch my scalp
and turn my head towards the sun.
You're in that direction
I follow the fingers that pull me along.

We sat down on the bed, taking a couple moments out of our day to listen to Kris sing. You were hunched over your shoes, pulling them on and I sat behind you. Kris spoke like he knew your woes and I reached out to hold you, to rest my head on your back. You stroked my leg and sang softly. And I wept a little against your back, blinking and silently asking you not to look at me. If anyone deserves a good cry, Kris would say, it's you.

No one helps the lame boy
get off of the bus
Knowing better than most,
he stares at the floor
and then gallops away
we watch
out of pity
in amazement
All by himself
he gets off the bus