Though headlights tossed shadows over her footsteps and he maneuvered the car for her attention, his regret rushed out the driver’s window.
Though headlights tossed shadows over her footsteps and he flung excuses into the air, he couldn’t chase the sting of his words.
Though headlights tossed shadows over her footsteps and she refused to turn her head, her heart focused her mind’s eye backwards.
~Twitter poem written over 3 days in early March
Snow melted to wet
sidewalks and muddy top soil —
seed racks in the store.
A young girl rolls cuffs
above dishwater. A strand
of hair clings to her lip,
froth creeps along her arm.
At the Hot-point
electric stove a woman pulls
open the seal on a milk carton, dumps
grease from skillet to trash.
A boy is still at the table eating.
He mangles peanut butter
about changing his name
from delivery-boy to A.
J. Foyt and living
on the coast of California. The girl uses
the dark window over the sink
as a mirror, from it she scrutinizes
calloused age in her mother’s hands.
-Written sometime in the 1980s
through flatlands, keys
sharp lines across graveled horizons,
roads kick free from under tires,
spin backward glances to dust.
Wheels become reasons,
ways of shifting past
clear of commitment.
-May 6, 2003
Earth trembles under the threat of her footfall,
fears the relentless press of her heel.
She holds its stones in low regard,
its boulders in open disdain.
Where she walks ground withers. Wasted:
you have forgotten
your heart in her path.
-Poem written in 1993. It may be useful to the reader to know that the lady in this poem and I eventually become, not close friends, but allies faced with a common enemy…
Somewhere in the past it didn’t matter
babies simply came
and some of them lived, while mostly
they died young and were buried without names.
Nowadays though we can pay to keep them,
or pay to keep them from coming at all.
Pregnant mothers take up knitting,
waiting fathers begin wearing night clothes —
settling down it is called
and every couple changes afterwards.
Congratulations on your sowing,
may you reap romantic children
who keep your faith alive.
After you left
I took to wearing your shirt
to my bed; it still had your smell
still had your contours.
It still had you.
-short poem found in undated manuscript, probably 1978-ish