poet, interviewer, musician, traveler
the man in the waiting room
my grandpa never wore
a fedora like the one
the old man is wearing
as he leans over my desk
(at least not when I knew him)
my grandpa didn’t have
the same bulbous Fields nose
showing the signs of
too many upward bends
of the elbow
but something about this man
as he asks me for a pen
to do the crossword
causes tears to fill my eyes
and I have to look away
28 October 2013
Oak Street
Jack
I remember him
as a cute little blond kid
up at the big house
north of everywhere
the next time we met
he was a real person
with likes and dislikes
and a favorite shirt
“Jack writes some
great sentences”
his dad told me
(Jack comes from writers)
later, he explained
a medical video game
in great detail, full of
cuts and sutures
I smiled, wondering
what had happened
in the middle years
to create this boy
for dinner we had
homemade Indian food
Jack complimented his mom
on the meal
27 October 2013
Oak Street
the first autumn snow
fell wet and heavy today
it’s already gone
24 October 2013
Oak Street
adding up
one day there are six, then none
a grumbling in the stomach
a trembling in the hands
then the mailbox delivers more
so it’s a cupboard full of noodles
a plastic container of miso paste
a small bag of Japanese rice
using every part of the cucumber
twice through on each tea bag
one chair in this room, one in that
but there are books to read
Duke Ellington records to listen to
a cushion under the window for meditating
and sometimes a smelly dog
and sometimes two lively boys
22 October 2013
Oak Street
tonight
started with crying
over unwanted homework
we figured out math problems
then read about superheroes
planned for the World Series
ate french fries with ketchup
wrestled in the living room
until two heads collided
tears again, briefly
it ended with snuggling
the smell of the dog
on the sheets and pillows
21 October 2013
Oak Street
inheritance
John’s watching Ghostbusters
at a little glass table
in the guest bedroom
every time he chuckles at
one of the laugh lines
I feel like a successful father
there’s no family estate to pass on
so I’m making do with
Ray, Venkman and Egon
the same way my grandfather
gave me Nat Cole and Glen Gray
on the turntable in the credenza
John’s laughing again as the guys
take down Slimer in the dining room
I put one arm around him, pull him close
20 October 2013
Oak Street
playoff poem
one son is snoring
book open beside him
the other sleeps quietly
arms missing the dog
who is also snoring
she’s on a beanbag
out in the living room
where the TV is on
the Red Sox are playing
October baseball
while the last remnants
of an autumn storm
push around the leaves
but can’t get inside
20 October 2013
Oak Street
a rose by any other name
shield bug on the door
seeks shelter from the autumn chill
she and her scent aren’t welcome
18 October 2013
Oak Street
the walk
he’s walking up North Atherton Street
during the only 10 minutes of sunshine
it’s uphill but he looks like he’s falling downhill
his pace a little faster than his body is used to
judging by the way he’s dressed
he’s a banker trying to sneak in a quick lunch
or a little bit of exercise to keep middle age at bay
his tan suggests a recent vacation
probably to Myrtle Beach or golfing in Florida
down there with the wife and another couple
the men spending their days on the links
the women spending theirs shopping
he’s the American Dream in a pair of Berlutis
the gleam of his wristwatch in the sun
is the first time the van driver notices him
by then it’s much too late to stop
when the paramedics get there, they find
one custom-made shoe more than
two hundred feet away, under a car in a nearby lot
17 October 2013
State College, PA
reverie on Orchard Street
she looks out her window at Chinatown
absent-mindedly pulling a long curly lock
from in front of her eyes to the top of her head
there’s a Steinway in the next room
warm wood floors, shelves plump with books
precious photos of her family
the photographs are the giveaway
so much history and joy and pain
barely contained behind thin panes of glass
she lives with the past at the tips
of her fingers, the warm breath of history
on the back of her neck
she remembers walking with her father
down these same streets
the buildings have shrunk but the people
are like diamonds, eternally beautiful
they are the fruit in her orchard
growing in the rich soil of her past
16 October 2013
Oak Street
car dealership haibun
Three men in white shirts are moving back and forth in front of the tall windows. The sun is streaming into the waiting room but they’re not concerned about the weather. They’re looking out into the lot, straining to see a head of hair or a hat bobbing between any two cars. The telltale signs of a customer. You’d think the lot would be packed on this gorgeous fall day, but those who can find a job are at work and the rest can’t afford a car. The tiny trees wave in a lackluster breeze, headstones placed in memory of what once must have been a forest. The men in white shirts keep watch.
waiting room man
eats crackers in monk’s hat
sun warming his neck
*
old man stares raptly
at television hunting program
waits to hear his name
*
magazine on her lap
she looks at me when I speak
but doesn’t respond
15 October 2013
State College, PA
storyteller
that his audience
isn’t listening
is not important
he’s marking territory
not conveying
information
he leans
against the counter
grips his mug
spins a yarn
in which
he’s the hero
midway through
his audience
is subtly reading
a book, grunting
when it seems
appropriate
he never notices
finishes the story
thunks his class ring
on the wooden counter
steps outside
for another smoke
14 October 2013
Oak Street
/ / /
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the result of 20 years
1993
Rochester, NY
two-bedroom apartment
downtown
Christopher worked in a bookstore
I worked at Columbia Bank
started writing funny poems
we made calzones or Boboli pizzas
I’d come home from the bank
every day for lunch
eat Maruchan ramen noodles
tortilla chips & W-POP root beer
the excuse was I’d just been
kicked out of my house
so I was figuring things out
*
2013
State College, PA
two-bedroom apartment
I don’t share it with anyone
I’ve got a job answering phones
in a Buick dealership
because not quite enough
people care about jazz
and I haven’t had health insurance
in more than three years
tonight for dinner I had
Maruchan ramen noodles
Utz pretzels and a Vanilla Coke
the excuse is I’m closer to my kids
restarting my life for the nth time
so I’m figuring things out
13 October 2013
Oak Street
taking stock
a chair cushion
with no frame
an inflatable bed
in an otherwise
empty room
stink bug under
a plastic cup
released back
into the wild
the trash goes
in a series of
grocery store
shopping bags
under the sink
a surprising
uniform shirt
hangs next to
black pants
signs of an-
other un-
expected turn
of events in
a life full of them
12 October 2013
Oak Street
anxiety
once again I’m lying in bed
worrying about money
I moved in to my own place
both to keep from wearing out
my welcome and because I need space
I used the last of my savings
so now I have a home but no certainty
I am, generally speaking, unemployable
still I send out message after message
hoping after two decades of working life
to convince someone to let me
ring up groceries or serve banquet guests
while I pass myself off as someone else entirely
I turn onto my side to reach for my phone
so I can tap out this poem
as I do I realize
my back is covered in sweat
7 October 2013
Oak Street
