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


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
sandwiches, dreams
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


Wind races
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
circumstances, steering
clear of commitment.



-May 6, 2003

Attack of the Fifty Foot Ex-Wife

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…

A Baby Verse

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.


-September 1980

One lingering, shared
cigarette: slim tendrils
writing on air, open windows
beckoning smoke.
She said no. She breathed yes.
The click of her heels
echoed the slam of the door.

-short poem rediscovered from an undated manuscript

Point Blanket

When air shivers and morning
huddles far away and alone,
past steadfast hallway clocks,
beyond refrigerators.
Something will be there.
Long after the shushing of falling snow ends
and the busy whispering of stars subsides,
breath heavily
onto the frosted windows
to watch.