the boy is upset

and calls out to his father,

"where did my hat go?"

this guy is trying

to put on his life jacket.

his wife and kids laugh.

a poem from last night,

scribbled in a drunken haze,

makes no sense at all.

last night i drank beer

socially without smoking.

i'm proud of myself.

the boy does bike tricks,

which are not impressive, and

he makes his dad watch.

the doctor called back

soon after the appointment.

to discuss results.

they sky is bright blue,

but the row boats in the pond

are even blue-er.

i reorganized

our home, putting everything

right where i want it.

the man took his son

across the water one day

in a blue row boat.

the little girl waves

from the boat when she sees her

grandfather on shore.

the little dogs try

to convince each other that

they are not little.

the woman struggles

to row the boat, while her two

children ask questions.

flags snap out sideways

when the summer breeze picks up.

the trees dance and sway.

a small river town

nineteen fathers, brothers, sons.

just names in granite.

he crosses his paw

like an intellectual.

don't tell him the truth.

i'm facing backwards

on a speeding train, watching

the world fall away.

the ground is swallowed.

green and buzzing, rising tide,

coats the hills like paint.

it sits on the ground

under the seat and watches

nothing absently.

blazing white birch trunks

lie shattered and crumbling

beside the train tracks.

quiet meadow grass,

and soil, so sweet and cool--

gentle sunset blue.

ancient farm land bones

lying in old foundations

bleached and caked with dirt.

two open doorways

stare out vacant, black as night,

calm as death itself.

engagement roses--

dry and fragile, the color

of soft river banks.

our time together

slips in between our woven

fingers and is gone.

plants in the window

silhouetted afternoon

on the white curtains.

church goers trickle

down the front steps and into

the rest of the world.

beneath the rippling

surface of the shallow pool

words say "no swimming."

imagine a bird

so proud of its feathered coat

and desperately protective

of its freedom to fly,

that it will not land

but stays aloft, exhausted,

proudly flailing its wings until

fatigue sets in its veins

like concrete.

freedom will not sound

from a desperate, forceful breathe,

but only from the knowledge

that you don't have to sing at all.

a bird is then not

free because it flies above

the trees, but because it makes the

conscious choice

whether to fly or land.

i now realize

5, 7, 5 is not law.

but i still like it.

an air compressor

stutters and vibrates while the

automobiles glide.

a butterfly hangs

in the front window of that

speeding toyota.

the man on the bike

repeats his warning to me--

"that man is insane."

i often stop by

school to practice relaxing

without cigarettes.

i miss wearing jeans

so despite the warmth today,

i just put them on!

gnashing their teeth and

wailing mercilessly, two

fire trucks charge past.

dismal pasty clouds

and a pleasant summer breeze

nothing is inside.

rain pelts the boaters

in the middle of the pond.

three dark umbrellas.

ball games by the pond--

"rejected! rejected!" the

kid keeps repeating.

decorative wood.

redecorated with names

and dates and curses.

my father's mother

can't wait to see the brand new

industrial park.

warm cozy jacket

hanging safe in the closet

while i freeze solid.

there is such grandeur

and bold simplicity in

uninformed hindsight.

down in the basement

pipes shudder and breathe deeply

and then fall silent.

thousands of rain drops

glisten white and green and red

on the bus windows.

i know him from school.

we acknowledge each other

in an awkward way.

cupcakes adorn the

table. actually, they

are muffins instead.

the man thinks he is

intimidating when he

walks slowly and squints.

she has the face bones

that will make her look real good

when she is more old.

the seagull twitches

as it descends from the sky.

we talk about maine.

she checks the mirror,

then changes again, as i

watch the time slip by.

we have already

left the house and caught a train

when i remember.

the disheveled man

plants his feet far apart when

the train starts to move.

i doubt that she is

very happy with the way

that her man dresses.

i sit, exhausted,

alone at the bus stop, when

a stranger joins me.

the man on the bus

rubbed the other man's shoulder

in a friendly way.

the music falters

and people start to grin, but

it soon recovers

the young couple stands,

quietly sharing time, when

an old man joins them.

everyone smiles when

the music comes to an end.

and the wind picks up.

the demographic

of my commute is not the

same as usual

the old pickup truck

sits ready for use like my

granddad's mason jars.

well goddamn, gretchen,

i think we look pretty good.

lets go have dinner.

rub sleep from my eyes

and blink back to consciousness

i need to wake up.

3-7-8-2

shaky lines

resonate with the joy of

sweet beginnings when everything

else ends

fallen leaves

are scattered across concrete

and catch droplets of water when

it rains.

"open on the right,"

the automatic voice says

the doors will, that is.

we both chomp on gum

as we descend into the

dark of a tunnel.

embarking on a

journey which requires bags,

two men catch a train

acne and flip-flops

make the man appear younger

than he truly is.

her tired eyes rest

lightly as the subway rocks

her like a cradle.

sleepy hands open

the front door of our home as

the city sighs low.

law + order

sweetheart, i love you.

this is what i promised you.

feeding tube removed!

looks like a pipe bomb

the killer was watching this.

give that radio!

it has been six years.

guess. isn't about money.

she is in danger.

i was getting gas.

its just before eleven.

never met karen.

our bomb was planted.

a copy of a letter.

what a heartbreaker!

stop the innocence!

he was handing out flyers.

i can not help you.

hello, what's your name?

step out slowly and let me--

get it! get it off!

104

is equal to 94

plus 10. there you go.

remains of baby

dna from the marrow

proves that it is yours.

he killed my baby

oh come on april, i told

them how you called me.

how much did you get?

twenty years. lets talk about

it. the beginning.

dan holds flacidly

the paper gretchen needs cut.

she gets frustrated.

i will soon be home.

i hope she has done her best

to make this pleasant.

his face is hopeful

cheek bones carved out like dustbowl

dried up farmland dirt.

a whole bunch a boats.

floating on a sunny day.

out there in the pond.

police officer

stares right at the musicians

as he passes them.

as the cop explains

the animal to people,

they become tired.

a sweaty strong man

runs past and the little girl

wanders far away.

it is plain as day.

i ought to send a message--

an explanation.

three birds chirp and fight

each other on the sidewalk.

clouds are gathering.

down by the water,

in the middle of boston,

its bluegrass music.

the woman glances

sideways into the window

of a sushi store.

i am sitting down

in the shade of an alley.

i am not homeless.

water is dripping

from a wall spigot on a

brick building nearby.

i can't tell for sure,

but i believe that object

is a dog's chew bone.

hey! what time is it?

right at this very moment!

i would like to know!

these two girls walk by

laughing and talking at once.

they turn my stomach.

upon this table

at which i sit there is a

painting of a fish.

the man seems to bounce

when he walks, perhaps because

of his music taste.

pieces slide across

nathan's checkered board, while frank

watches and comments.

the dog is sleeping

legs stick out like cracked up glass

but much more comforting

vultures don't eat food

you can buy at the food store--

they are not like us.