It’s That Time

Poetry was demoted
Made subservient to Yule
Totes and totes and totes and totes
I’ve been a decorating fool

Two trees are up and ready
Waiting to be adorned
A third tree still boxed up
is eager to be reborn

And don’t forget the mantle
It’s bare and waiting too
And a bit more staircase garland
before the work is through

At least the Dickens Village
is absolutely complete
Glowing buildings, winter trees
and Victorian lamp lit streets

Tomorrow we begin again
hoping to tie loose ends
All to be done by Thanksgiving
when we open our home to friends


I opened my eyes
Rolled over to squint
at the clock
Its arms at seven
I sighed
closed my eyes for a second
Opened them again and it was nine
Just like that
And in that brief instant
I ran a large grocery
and fired a cashier
and I think back to
all the times I’ve
began a sentence with
“when I was in my twenties”
as if that was relevant
or even real . . .

I only closed my eyes for a second

Pekingese Paradise

When I peel open
the American Cheese
their little butts get to squirmin’

And no they don’t care
that it’s not really cheese
They’re not known for their learnin’

So now you’re aware that
a Peke’s paradise
comes by the slice
and satisfies every yearnin’

One Time in Memphis

we were sitting in Handy Park
Down past the pulsing neon
Past those human bug zappers that
attract the wide-eyed and their
wallets like so many hapless moths
Sitting and watching a Stevie Ray Vaughn
knock off band sweat through the
standards in the oppressive breath
of Memphis in July when what
did our eyes behold but a
very large woman in an equally
large flowered dress rest her ample
back against the cinder block wall
that housed the public toilets
and proceed to squat and piss
on the concrete
The sound akin to a cow
casually relieving itself
on a flat rock and she
content and oblivious to
the urine pooling around
her tattered flip flops
or who might be watching
and the blues played on and
no one gave the egregious breach
of etiquette much thought

Such is life in the city

Cold Clutch

The cedars are drunk
from too much ice
Swaying heavily like
a hopeless lush striving
courageously to remain
between the
sidewalk’s edges
they both
will begin to weep
releasing their frozen heart’s
burdens to return to the earth