Growing up my family always had dogs,
only one at a time, of course, since we
were a modern suburban family,
which may be why we had a dog.
It clearly wasn’t because they loved dogs,
they tolerated them on good days,
ignored them the rest of the time
and the good days were few if any.
I never asked for a dog, knew
the daily care would fall to me, for
my sort of brother and sister would
never lift a finger if they didn’t want
and they rarely wanted for other than
themselves, but I didn’t mind, for each
dog became my true family, we all
shared a common blood with them
which is to say none, and we all
in our own languages, which we all
understood while no one else did, that
we were orphans who beat the system.
It is incredibly frustrating that no matter how long I spend in discussion with the egret, he will tell me nothing of his life, of what it is like to be able to perch on long legs, and then take glorious flight. The limpkin will speak endlessly on this topic, but he really has nothing to say of any importance. Still, I’m not giving up hope, for a friend said that he had it on good authority from a passing wood stork that the egret is planning to write a tell all book, once he figures out how to use a computer.
You read the obituaries every day
not only for the confirmation that you
are not listed among them.
The key five words there are
not only for the affirmation, particularly
upon hearing the gentle man you liked,
but you also valued as a friend and craftsman
is gone, and you didn’t say goodbye,
that you thought “better him than me,”
that you hated that thought,
that you hated yourself for thinking it,
that nonetheless you are glad
it wasn’t you, was someone else,
just not him, just not someone you knew.
You weren’t in the obituaries today
and when you are gone, you won’t
be there to read it anyway, and you want
think “better him than you,”
and you promise you
will forgive those that think it.
I sit in the window
staring out over the rain slicked streets
to the passing of the occasional car
and the three men who glance furtively
at the door of the “Adult Entertainment” club.
The old oak floors are scarred
by too many heels. The railing along the window
is bolted into the floor, suspending
the white lace curtains.
The young woman sits at the next table,
Players cigarette nestled between her fingers,
trying to conceal her anxiety.
She nurses the cup of coffee,
staring at the two menus resting on the table.
She pulls at the hem of her pink ramie sweater
and glances periodically at her watch.
Her leg, encased in stone washed denim
swings like a metronome as she stares
at the Detroit News, not reading.
She lifts her head, and a smile
creeps across her lips as her friend enters,
skirt dripping water, forming a small puddle
on the floor under her chair.
The waitress, robed in a black satin pantsuit
brings the escargot, on their bed
of linguine, and the evening washes on.
First Appeared in Eratica: Half a Bubble Off Plumb, Vol. 4, No. 1, Winter
You want it spicy, but just so that
the tongue remembers it a moment
after the mouth has moved on, a lingering
sense of having been present.
It should be a mantilla, a shawl,
not the blanket some claim, gently
caressing, lighting up the plate.
Its host, freshly from the rollers,
was born for this moment,
and welcomes its friend, and
the teeth of its visitors, accompanied
by the grapes carefully pressed
and aged for this occasion.
The tomatoes sigh as the last
of the arrabiatta is consumed
and evening slips quietly into dreams.