ROAD DREAM

It’s 12 degrees
the night air
slices through
my sweater
my teeth chatter.
Standing in the lot
fetching my cell phone
from the glove box
my breath congeals
around my face
a cloud.
I look up
at the moon
snowflakes dancing
on my forehead.
Luna’s face
is shrouded
by a cirrus veil,
but her eyes
are yours
her lips soft
caressing
curl upwards
in a smile
as yours.
I tell her
of my love
and she whispers
her love
reflectively
in the voice
I hear
as I curl
next to your picture
slipping slowly
into sleep.

ERATO PREFERS LATTE

My muse sits quietly
on the shelf over the counter
in the Café Espresso
at Barnes and Noble

nestled between 12 ounce bags
of Colombian Supremo and Kenya AA,
in the shadow of the plant
whose leaves reach out
to caress her cheek.
She whispers to me
between notes from the guitarist
performing on the edge
of the Music Department
hawking his new CD
to an audience there more
for the coffee and tea.
The philodendron scandens
nods approvingly
as I carefully tuck her
into the pouch
of my fleece jacket
for the long drive home.

IN DREAMS

Mingling with the wind,
my dreams are carried off
into the night before I have
fully finished viewing them.
The heavy heat of summer
has seeps through the windows,
a blanket I cannot throw off
almost smothering, until
it, too, is soon washed
away by the rivulets of sweat
soaking into the sheets.
I reach out for my fleeting
dreams, try to pull them back.
But the wind laughs, whispers,
“I am beyond your control
and what I steal belongs to all
but he from whom I took it,
but I leave you other dreams
from other dreamers in its stead.”