If only there were
floor and stamina enough to dance,
if only the music would last
one more hour
one more season, one more life.
Which song would I choose? Which partner
could gracefully twirl me, waltzing
into forever?
There were so many partners and songs.
So much music.
So many dances.
I wonder if regret is a superpower,
a sub-genre of invisibility,
a strength wielded by those
who have grown
too old to take anything back.
Work-in-Progress
WIP started 7 July 2019
Quiet morning. Fans no longer growl.
Thunderstorms sliced through the heat
then retreated.
A single gentle breeze
peeks under the easterly curtains
then drops them
back into place.
Dream State
Even the places here are turning
to dreams.
From the bus window, I point out landmarks:
I used to live on the second floor of a blue house down that street
I used to buy lunch from the hot buffet in that market and then skip dinner
I used to feed the feral cats in that park and was especially fond of a black and white kitten
but I don’t remember
the street address, the best entre, the kitten’s name.
Where I was and
who we were
a decade ago, two decades ago,
half-a-century past
is nearly unconjurable,
as if it never,
as if you never
happened
at all.
Lost Cat
For thirty-eight years I’ve listened for your cry
at my window, worried whether you were lost in the train yard,
or horrifically crushed by some speeding car, or trapped
in some crazy cat lady’s overabundant kitchen.
By falling back asleep, I failed at the final thing you asked from me.
Let me come home,
you mewed through the glass, Let me inside.
By all things sacred and holy to felines, I swear
that I meant to.
I put food on the patio for weeks.
It went untouched.
I got up every night to double check.
You were never there.
Months afterwards when
my marriage was over and the moving van was nearly full,
I paced the circumference of the yard calling your name
then stood holding the door
open to all my regrets.
brief salvage 