Ambition
My ambition is to work
the words “Christ on a bike!”
into a poem. But no doubt I will
end up accomplishing nothing
much more than managing to eke out
a modicum of wonder
as I sit at sunset and spot just
the right amount of wantonly
accumulated cumulus to catch
a bit of orange
and pink
and gold.
In Florida
In Florida,
nature never seems
far from reclaiming
it’s right to rule.
Cities may expand,
appearing to cement
ever-wider spheres
of effluence.
Yet cities also decay,
while nature sprouts and
seaways surge, steadily, and
winds whip, wickedly and righteous.
A bit more brazenly in Florida,
less openly elsewhere,
patiently steadfast,
nature plays the long game.
Bed Time
Head hits pillow. Echoes
of song snippets lap the
subconscious. A distant
lover beckons once more,
weaving fragments of
past lives, of dreams,
of a dream. But an erudite
Aphrodite has no place
here. Only the slow, doltish
workings of a clock, speaking
now with the faucet: Ticktick,
dripdrip, ticktick, dripdrip,
ticktick … up until the
dependably panicked alarm
clock shouts them down. But
what of the silent slumber-time
drama, those personal details
stowed godknowswhere until
another night, another dreamy
fragment to emerge, briefly.
How Old Was He?
When anybody dies
those left behind
are often quizzed:
How old was he?
Did he suffer much?
Was it one or two
shooters? When
after all there isn’t
much to say about
one’s life or its end,
save for taxonomic
surveys of component
parts and what they
constructed. And
in truth there’s mostly
the unspoken concern
— casting aside others’
artifacts and detritus
— of where one’s own
remnants will point
at the appointed hour.
