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PERHAPS
Perhaps life is not so bad,
perhaps it is not all gray fog and aimless borders,
perhaps there is some meaning to it all
and perhaps not.
She juggles these observations with a wry smile,
I always think of her smiling seductively,
friendly in a fashion,
her smile is her best tool, her best defense
she uses it well.
She seems balanced and accomplished
though she has her edge:
witty and worried and warrior woman
from a Warner Brothers feature,
a heroine 1930's style
confused and conflicted
and courageous,
making snappy dialogue while the earthquake rumbles,
and the bottles fall from the wall
the whole damn world is just about to fall apart
but she stays cool,
as the awkward leading men
thrash about for an answer.
And she stops their nervous flutter with one big
Get a hold of yourself grin.
Bravely, facing the whirlwind of life
or a cocktail party
with a smile and a martini glass in hand.
Perhaps, that is who she is,
perhaps much more.
COMMUTER BUS: THE OLD 86
I have a good seat for the one act drama
that is the neighborhood bus at night.
We commute from one set of chairs to another
home to work, work to home again
five days a week until
vacation, snow, or death intervenes.
In the dark, the bus prowls its familiar path,
growling at each stop and go,
an arthritic dog anxious not
to stay or stray
but stray it must down the same paths,
with the same silent faces on board.
Then every whence and when
child cries "Mom, where is the Doughnut house?"
or an old woman mutters under her breath
things were better once.
Suddenly a cell phone sparks
and someone confesses the commute
is fine,
just as expected.
WINTER WEAR
The wind is cold and austere,
an urban planner.
It lays the streets down before your eyes
sharp cornered and flat, every turn
greets you with shadows
and a sudden gust of season's displeasure.
It is time to check out gloves
and window seals,
the patches on our winter coat,
our lovers embrace,
and other protective enclosures.
Check for weakness and wear.
Heads bowed down,
shoulders shrugged
we hold our cups of coffee before us
like crucifixes
to ward off the demons of wind
SUNRISE
When the first light breaks,
not the rude gray light of work
but the white light of Sunday dawn
And something is stirring outside the window
the chatter of birds,
the slam of newspapers
and the hustle and rustle
of java and joggers
has just begun.
You turn and look at her
close and asleep
harmless, gentle, delicate--
rubbed clean of anger and argument,
passion and pester,
caring and comment.
She is near and warm and breathing soft,
the blanket of snow, the child's faith,
the purple scent of Spring,
life fresh and full again,
near at hand
and this dawn you count yourself grateful
to be alive,
to be with her.
Conserving the Book
The bone
folder smoothes flat
the Japanese tissue paper
The conservator has a scalpel for an eye
detecting the smallest tear,
the strain of reader's pressure,
the residue of wear.
Hands agile and quick
Making well again
the well-made book.
----And the craftsman himself,
Well fitted in his case
strong sewn sturdy,
bound to his purpose.
Serving it with certainty
And a drop of desperation.
Precision
and paste
closing the wound,
bringing the patient back to the living world
of reading minds.
How careful his thumb and mind make whole
the paper's weakest weave.
Puddles of Stone
Puddles
of stone
Time is gentle in the Zen garden
a rake and sand and a patient eye
can make a sea that flows to
the perfect rock.
For two dollars I have
entered a black and white economy of language.
A root curves so, a buddha smiles,
the water chants, and puddles of stone
walk the borders of this eternity.
But the falcon still hungers for the rabbit's throat
crouching in a corner of the mind
as a police siren shreads
the rice paper screen of silence.
Insolence from above,
a jet arguing with the sky
beneath its notice
a courtyard, a man.
What hunger in my heart arches for this small
silence?
What need seeks this simplicity?
I am a child of noise; I am a tourist in the garden
I pay my two dollars and cannot quite comprehend.
Notice
Out of the office, into the street
where puddles of sunset splash
the sidewalks
with golden revels of purple
and most prominent, crimson
royal and deep
and in the road
the efficient crow
picking the guts of a squirrel
who was just a bit too slow.
The crow's beak is sharp
his partner's voice: laughing raw
scraping the beauty from my eyes
A star is coming out, cold and clear
shinning diamond logic down on the street
A frozen fire in the gloaming sky,
Night is closing in relentlessly
Another Crow's beak.
The Winter staggers weary rag man toward
tragedy
then every now and then
his slap shoes slip on the ice.
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