LAURELS  Been resting on my laurels, trimming branches here and there— damaged leaves, blighted twigs—Hey, look, a farmer chasing pigs! “And just in time,” my laurels chime. “Again today, a silly rhyme. We tire of being rested on. Your promise beckons. Move along. Earn new ones you may rest upon.” I answer same as yesterday, “Okay, okay, but not today.”


DUST  I’ve a paucity of glossity, am brimming with slackoffacy, am only doing what I must, have grown accustomed to the dust. Am having visitors tonight. When company comes, I dim the lights. Some sneeze a bit, especially Liza. Most of them are none the wiser

STILL  Still mixing fact with fiction, moving commas here to there, ever honing my depictions to ensnare the unaware. Still tweaking old to speak anew, still sharing the results with you, imagining you’ll like them more—the portals I’ve replaced with doors—be glad you’ve entered them again, want to share them with a friend

SPECTACLES  I've spectacles for this and that, for every here to there, and the more of them I have, the less it matters which I wear

TO GAGA  I love you on a piano seat or upside down and seatless. I even love you dressed in meat, though, in my dreams, you’re meatless

FRAGMENT  Old now, looking out the window at my father's face, old and tanned, looking back at me through thick glasses over the front-porch railing as I park across the street from his house

THE TRUTH  That he would know The Truth is clear for all to see ungrounded. The quest for Truth is an endless quest, he’s much too young to have found it

TO LOVE  To love, my love must be repaid but, after that, I cannot say. Her shapely calf? The way she walks? Her joyful laugh? Her funny socks? Her lisp? Her love of artichokes and wine? Her kindliness? Her playful mind? How easily our hands entwine? To love, my love must be repaid but, after that, I cannot say 

GONE  Here yesterday, gone today, a dog barks, children play, a car pulls out across the way, same as any other day

SANDWICH GIRL  It’s Valentines Day on the outskirts of Love. She’s fixing my sandwich. There’s shouting above. “Special Sauce?” she says. “No, thanks, Mayonnaise.” And then, on a whim, “Come with me,” I say. “We’ll flag us a bus, climb aboard, ride away.” “I’d love to,” she says, “but I’m busy today.”

MY DOG  Call him Sparky, call him Prince, call him Belvedere. Or call him Billy Bob or Spike. Call him anything you like. He answers to ‘Come here’

AWESOME  Awesome that and awesome this, when everything's awesome, nothing is

ASPIRATIONS  I never aspired to be an adult—they ran the world, I wanted to play—so followed the path of least resistance, wound up where I am today. The several occasions I gave it a whirl—donned a tie, took on the world—it was plain for all to see, I shared my name but wasn’t me


NEIGHBOUR/  Walking fast—that’s how she walks—until her dog would like to stop. Her dog is rolling in the sand. She reaches down, he licks her hand. She’s caught me watching her again   

ON TURNING 80  Never thought, as a kid, I’d own a car, and several times have been wrong about that, and I wasn’t expecting to make it this far, nor arrive so soon at where I’m at. I didn’t think to prepare for that, for a place I’d never see, so am living, still, as I used to live, in a place I used to be

SPRING It isn’t Winter till it’s white, nor Summer till it’s warm at night, nor Fall till sweaters are the thing, nor Spring until the Cardinals sing. I've yet to hear the Cardinals sing, have heard, this year, there’ll be no Spring—no Summer, too, just Fall—and that Trump, to move some sweaters, is the force behind it all. This seemed to me a tad extreme, a nutsy, twisted point of view, till Trump declared it wasn’t so, confirming it was true