Father/Son Night is a casino,

 

Father/Son Night is a casino, 

questionable choice for a high school.
    (The goal is bonding.)
I play blackjack, amass a modest gain, 
bet it all at closing time—and lose.
    (It’s only chips.)
The boy meanwhile steps outside with 
a fretful-looking girl named Cecilia. 
Saves his chips.

Driving home the truck breaks down, 
a clunky grinding noise, so we walk 
a highway of headlights toward a pay phone
    (those old days).
Bats crisscross beneath streetlights 
harvesting bugs. A car slows, somebody 
shouts “Hey! Fuck you!” and is gone. 
“Friend of Cecilia,” the boy explains. “Ex.”

I call Rose who is home with sleeping 
children. Agonizing choice—
    (we live in mountains, isolated)
    (and looking back, we can’t believe 
    we made this choice)
but she leaves kids in their beds
    (ages 9, 13)
with a note if they should wake and drives 
to pick us up, an hour round trip.

Anxious, home, frosty breath of fir-tree air. 
Inside warmth, bundles sleeping safely.
Oh children of this fuck-you planet—
Consider the risk. 
Then love.

…..

First published in Sheila-Na-Gig. Thank you editor Hayley Mitchell Haugen.

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Through Glass

 

Through Glass

My daughter at age 7 
is a window 
into girl world
a land of star-shine 
and unicorns
so today I ask her 
to give names to 
all her leotards
and she names them 
Bronwyn who is brown,
Cinderella who is yella, 
and Donald who is purple. 
Why Donald? I ask.
Because it’s too tight, she says, 
and I sweat in places
and it’s embarrassing 
and Donald is the old man who stares.

…..

First published in Black Coffee Review. Thank you editor Dave Taylor.

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42 Minutes Before Sunrise

 

42 Minutes Before Sunrise

I let the dog out the kitchen door
and stand guard on the porch
with big beam flashlight 
against mountain lions 
(although what would I do?) 
so the poodle pees on a fencepost
while from silhouette of tree
an owl hoots a great horned 
farewell to the night 
and from shadowy forest floor 
wild turkeys awaken 
gobbling indignant squabbles.

Poodle lingers, 
leg still cocked though dry 
as if he, too, savors this moment
while from dark branches
against a quickening sky
robins, finches, grosbeaks in song
declare their territories, call their mates
and (I believe) express their joy 
like a choir without a conductor
lubricating the sunrise
because for birds as in opera
transitions need music.

…..

First published in The Russell Streur Anthology

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The Moment After

 

The Moment After

Numb from the crawl space, 
from cobwebs and cramps, 
from weight of wrenches, suck of mud, 
from cruel finger-scrape of crusty pipe
I open the gas-cock, dimly aware of
a hoo-oo-ooting sound as wearily, stupidly
to relight the pilot I strike a match and 
WHOOSH 
a comet of fire slams me to a wall. 

Fast the body moves 
before the mind reacts. 
Scrambling on hand and knee 
for an endless instant— 
I shut the cock.

The moment after in stillness, 
    my right arm is smoking.
The moment after from my sizzled beard, 
    the scent of singed hair.
The moment after from my lip, 
    the taste of ash.

And like a wild river
    blood throbs through my heart.
With a rush of air
    lungs expand.

Before pain can muster
(and muster it shall), 
in the moment after 
I have senses, spirit. 
The soul burns, my love, 
blessed to the quick
with life.

…..

First published in Verse-Virtual, thanks to James Lewis, editor

Note: I wrote this poem after a terrible horrible no-good day when yes, I nearly blew up a client’s house (and myself). How lucky, how wonderful to be alive.

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