Broken pieces

On the path to morning

Laid by hands long departed

The cracks and fissures

That become art

In the way and gait

Of the walker

To step over, contemplate

Dance among, the gum that becomes

Black faces on the ground

Looking up

To imagine–

Spat from mouths

Chewing past the interludes

Waiting to say something

To someone

I pause at one

Brick design at the corner

Of Swarthmore and Antioch

The errant, cast off cigarette butts

Wrappers waving, a few

Scattered, trampled faces

On the walk

At a break in the traffic

The street quiets

Opens its heart

And I cross Antioch

From one shore

Towards another.

Do flowers know

Something we don’t–

About the shape

Of the wind

And the angle

Of the sun?

I wonder, watch them

As they bend

Petals at changing levels

From 9 to 10–

At noon, again different

Slowly closing

With afternoon

To evening

And morning when

They unfurl

In a ritual

We may

Or may not ever

Understand.

Everybody looks suspicious

But I don’t yet know

What they did–

Sitting in corners

In their folding metal chairs

The occasional metal squeak

Of legs resisting

The furtive glance

The evasive grimace

And I am here

Planted squarely in the middle;

Amidst stories of ascent

To glamorous penthouses

With flashbulbs and baggies and booze

And the trademark demise…

The tales are familiar:

Hookers, limos and tables

By windows–perfect

For flinging open later

In a suicide trajectory–seven

Eight, or was it nine floors

Down to Sunset?

But no longer

Now it’s just men

With their hard-won wrinkles

Fond reminiscence of binges

And pre-dawn trips to pots of powder

At the end of the moonbow…

And here’s how you do it–

You raise your hand

And tell it

Like it is.

“Who wants

To read about pizza?”

I ask this question

At 7am at The Coffee Bean

And get funny looks

Some smiles

And finally, willingness–

May is a fan of pizza

She says

And grabs the magazine from me

While singlehandedly

Making my breakfast tea…

I’ve already read about the pizzas

And am no longer interested

In artisanal, wood-fired ovens

Exotic, seasonal toppings

And long waits

At the nation’s trendy bistros

I’ll leave that for those

More curious that I

About creating a particular

Smoky flavor; the right cheese

For summer, and how

To lightly chill a zinfandel

So it’s perfect

With a crunchy

Whole wheat crust.

Another season–

Aren’t you counting?

That makes more

Than 50 of them

In your case;

The subjective moment

That hinges the day

To nothing certain

Except more time…years

And if you’re lucky

Good weather–the kind

Where frisbees float a long way

Dog barks carry for miles

But you don’t have

Much luck with kites, not

Until later on

When the dependable wind

Comes up–leaves it mark

On leaves

And blows dust in

Like urges you clean up

Only to blow more in again–Ha!

Another penny from the street

A lucky one (maybe)

To place on the ledge

Grab in an impetuous instant

And toss out the deck door

Proclaiming “Summer’s Here!!”

But it’s not

You only made that up

To fit the moment–

It’s still

A few weeks off.

This time

It has to work–

All the talk

Of oceans

Ridgelines and faults–

The signature against the sky

At night

When there is nothing left

But memory

And the will

To pick up a pen

Find paper

And follow a thought

Before it escapes

Like a bird might

Or the tide

Or a friend departing

For no reason, never

To come back…

This time, the words

Will stay, set

In black

In a book

On a shelf; one

That’s set apart

From the stack–

One

You might even read

In spite

Of the onslaught

Of information

And the everpresent lack

Of time.

You found a nickel;

What will you do next?

Find a dime

A dollar

Or a dubloon?

Go ahead–

Put it in your pocket

It might buy five minutes

On the parking meter

Or maybe one–

No longer a stick of gum

As those are a quarter now

And it’ll take 40 of them

To get a cup of coffee…

How about offering it

To a bum–or someone homeless

On the corner? If you do

You’ll only get

A dirty look

5 cents is less

Than an insult–

So you might consider

Putting it back

Where you found it

In the street–there, at least

It serves a purpose

Of causing people

To bend down

In the hopes

It’s something more

Than a nickel.

There’s the moon

With a bite

Taken out of it–

Like God had

His hand

In the cookie jar

And was munching on

A big prize

But He got caught

And sentenced

To an eternal punishment

Of vigilance

Over all of this

Including

The bitten moon

On nights when He

Would have liked more

And all of us below

Are also

Not full.

When you think of me

Do you laugh

Or want to cry

For all that never

Came true for us

In this life?

Like a sad song hummed

While collecting clues

Of something forgotten

Trifling and irrelevant:

A fallen price tag ($44.99)

To be thrown away

Probably from a bottle

Of wine (California cabernet)

Or a fascinating pattern

Of dust motes blown

Around the floor…

You clean them up

But they return

And you laugh!

I guess I’m laughing too–

We’ve come this far

In the poem; along

The browning coast

Of summer, where spring

Has no further purpose–

A season of promise

That’s turned into

Hoped-for fireworks

Lying there

In an imaginary crate

By the door, incendiary

To be sure–but

It’s fire season, I wouldn’t

Light that incense

And–thank goodness–

You stopped smoking

A decade ago;

There are sparks

That fall from the mantle

As if from old candles, the kind

That don’t stay lit

Never even attracting

A single moth

And still,

You laugh.

You’re lonely-

Maybe it’s

The night

Or the day

That are set up

To make you feel this way;

The long hours

lists to make

And cross off

And make again

With things forgotten

And remembered

And fulfilled–

The groceries to unload

And put in drawers

And on shelves

A bed to make (again

And again) laundry

To take in; those sad

Brown packages

it comes back in–

No wonder you’re lonely

Even though

There could be

Other words for it:

Like busy

Preoccupied

Distracted, even

Overwhelmed

But face it

When you look

Squarely at the issue

And all

That you must do

In a day

It’s just that

You’re lonely.