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CASSIE
I looked for you last nightwhen the cloud slowly peeled backand the moon reluctantly went dark.Despite my presbyopia I foundyour throne lying in view, emptyand you nowhere to be seen, evenPersius said he never saw you leave.I truly miss you, Cassie and hopeyou will soon return for the starsare diminished by your absence.
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UNDER THE BED
There was a ghostor two for a short while,that lived under my bedwhen I was three or four. My mother said theywere not real, she couldn’tsee them when she looked,so they were all in my mind. I had to tell her that youdon’t ever actually see ghosts,you just know they are therebecause you sense their…
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WANTING
I wanted to write like Heaneybut of course he got there firstand could do it in two languages,so that was out of the question. I tried to write like otherof the greats only to find thatwhat set them apart from so manyset them rather far apart from me. So I an left to write as…
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EXPECTATION
They came this afternoon. They were not expected. They tend to show up when thet are not expected. We expect that of them. They did not tell us they were coming. If they had, we would expect them. They do not want to be expected. We expect that of them. They did not do what…
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EDGE OF THE ABYSS
He sits on the edgepeering down, shakingin the breeze, knowingthe abyss below waitsfor a misstep, a slip. He stares up, waitingfor her return, hopingshe will soon arrivebringing the meal, neverenough always wanting more. He knows he willsomeday soon haveto leave, but for nowall he can do is spreadhis wings, flap them, until it will seem…
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COMING BACK
He appears, rising from the horizonthe sun at his back, as if a miragetaking physical shape and form. He approaches slowly, your eyesstraining to separate himfrom the sun’s growing glow. You wonder if his is a holy manrobed and with a staff, walkingto announce his long awaited return. As he grows closer, you realizehe is…
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A RETURN SOMEDAY
Some day I need to returnto Tokyo and walk its streetslistening for the soundtrackthat Haruki Murakami requiresof the city, bebop jazzin Shinjuku, classical whenwandering Asakusa and Senso-ji,and rock on the streets of Shibuya. I have often been there, butmy soundtrack was thatof horns and the clatterof a pachinko parlor, orthe pitched giggles of younggirls walking…
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AFTERLIFE
In the farthest reachesof the afterlife, the old mengather each day, althoughday and night are meaninglessto them, just assignedfor purposes of the writer. The Buddha recites sutrashoping the others willbe in the moment with him,while Hillel smiles, standson one foot and dreamsof a lean pastrami on ryewith a slice of half sour. Christ muses on…
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HOME?
The news, online and on paper,is replete with storiesabout adult children movingback in with their parents,whether because of the pandemic,or other circumstances, alwaysexpecting they willhave a room at the ready. Perhaps it is why wechose to have no spare rooms,sort of a preemptive strikeagainst an ill-conceived return. But as my cohort ages,I wonder if all…
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SHOWERS
We sat on our lanai last nightin our twin rockers, the catcurled close by but carefullyremoved from the rockersand stared into the sky hopingmeteors would grace uswith their fleeting presence. The moon did appear, shroudedin thin clouds, spectral ghostwaxing slowly in hiding, butthe stars had fled this night,fearing the rain thatthe cloud mantle promised. We…
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an old writer and his words 