poet, interviewer, musician, traveler
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
fingers
the way they curve softly around the mouse
how they float over the keyboard
like the stalks of pond lilies in a breeze
three bands of silver woven into a ring
on the middle finger of her right hand
glimmering in the constant fluorescence
her nails are the color of coffee with cream
and despite her years on the farm, her fingers
are gentle, unmarked by hardship
hers are fingers meant to encircle a face
to trace the sensitive skin of an inner arm
to entwine in the fingers of her lover
11 October 2013
Oak Street
old bikes
bicycles rest against the old wooden shed
pedals holding memories of who knows how many feet
seats waiting for riders who’ll never return
weeds are coming up through the spokes
winding their way around the chains
nature claiming the spoils of blind progress
a few miles away cars roar along the new bypass
driven by the children who rode these bikes
until they traded in adventure for security
I walk past this treasure trove every day
quietly making plans for a midnight raid
to liberate these prisoners from their weedy jail
I’ll clean them and oil them and put air in the tires
then I’ll offer them for free to anyone
who wants to know how it feels to fly
10 October 2013
Oak Street
home
(for A)
you have a home
in the hearts of
your friends
you’ll find a place
for your pillow
8 Oct 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
o-bon
flickering paper lanterns
carry handwritten messages
four children at the water’s edge
pull leaves off the top of the pond
the deep rumble of a drum
bounces off the hillsides
while we watch the lights
each keeping our own counsel
6 October 2013
Julian Woods, PA
a dream of you on Oak Street
fell asleep fully clothed
with the lights blazing
dreamed you were beside me
one arm across my chest
awoke in the wee hours
to the sound of cars and crickets
looked around but couldn’t find you
went back to sleep
4 October 2013
Oak Street
feet hanging off a dirty rooftop
strumming a blues as the rain starts
thinking of you
4 October 2013
Oak Street
