I kicked

A green apple core

From the curb

Into the gutter

And fretted again

At barely 7am

About our culture–

The waste the indifference

And how

I didn’t lean down

Pick it up myself

And throw the apple away

Properly, but decided

Instead to comment

On others’ thoughtlessness

Including mine

For actions untaken.

Out on

The near horizon

A chance to change

Your life, for a while:

A jade margin approaching

“Blue rope” as we say

The sea level rising

To an A-frame peak

Right outside, you turn

In time and dig deep

You’ve got to catch it

Before the wave escapes

Like the pelicans, there

In their effortless glides

Or the sleek dolphin

Swimming by (was that

A smile I saw on his face

Last time he circled?)

And so you pivot hard

Make your move

Paddle for all you’re worth

And then, it comes true—

The rise, descent, the line

Along a firing funnel

Summer blue towards

Winter silver—to the shore

Inside the rock

You tuck

And make it through—

You’ve got to catch it

And you do…

Jets groan by

In the sky

From the weight

Of change

And oddments stored

In luggage—

The secrets

No one sees

Apparent only

To pilots

And small children

Looking up

At adults…

The heavens give

No guidance, full

Of inscrutable clouds

The shape of amulets

Escaping zoo creatures

And empty treasure boxes–

Then, birds melting

To blue, or anything

The drunken eye

Decides—it’s hard

Being human

For all the

Animal impulses;

How we want

To flee

On those jets

Going by, to better

States of mind—

Such vanity

In a life, already

On permanent

Vacation.

The imposing

Coffee maker

At café Figaro

Hisses out its

Millennial sound;

I don’t know what

She’s thinking

But I’m tempted

To ask her, the

Black apron girl

Who might be

From Paris or

Pasadena–

No accent

To determine—

She is so diligent

And careful

With my teacup

I could mistake this

For affection but

The tea is too good

To delve deeper

And besides

I stopped

Drinking coffee

Five months ago.

I wrote a word

On my hand today—

Bold black letters

Among the creases

And pink sections;

Some letters to remind me

Every time I reach out

Or grab something

To look down

At the clear suggestion I’ve made

A bit of advice

Which is to

STOP.

I don’t know how

I’m ever going to get

Anyone’s attention

With this angry poetry—

About the guy in the corner

I don’t like, the yellow, stark

Antiseptic lighting

That’s far too bright

More sirens in the street

Than anyone needs

For all these

Imagined emergencies—

I sit scribbling

Like the angry man

I must be, as

A baby in a crib

Wailing away

With no one there

To change

What must be

A soiled diaper.

We were talking

About skunks

The other night, at dinner

And on the way home

One ambled across

The road

Right in front of me

I could smell

His acrid scent

As he passed by

Having slowed down, and

Glad I didn’t hit him–

This is a town

Now full of skunks

Richard said it was

“A skunk infestation…”
Whatever that means, exactly

But on reflection

It might suggest

No one wants

To mess with them

And they simply

Keep on breeding

Like a world

Heading towards

A permanent

Bad smell.

The garbage truck

Comes at 5:45am

With an ungodly clattering

Banging, beeping and random

Broken bottles

I want to go out

And tell them

To STOP!!

But it’s none

Of my business

How the town is cleaned up

Or when or by whom

So I move

To another room

In the house

Where the din

Is less severe

A tad muted, more remote

But it’s still there

This crass, insensitive invasion

Of my peace and tranquility

I’d like to call someone

But I don’t think

There’s an 800#

For complaints

About garbage trucks.

Everybody’s writing

A F’N book

Not me—

I write poetry

Quick and to the point

With twists and

Unexpected hooks;

Plays on words

Double entendres and metaphors

In the time it takes

To read a tome

You could read

Twenty of mine

And be done

Before lunch or dinner

Or the midnight snack…

Too many words

Make my eyes hurt

I lose the meaning

Wonder “WHY?” too much

So I’m keeping it short

Because I like to be finished

In time for a nap

Then to awaken, and stare

Out the window

At the imploring moon

Coming up.

Those dogs

Don’t do well

In that house alone—

Barking, fearful

And suspicious of everything

Hunkered down

On the ratty couch

Shifty eyes, assessing sounds

They’re ok if Andy’s there

But alone—they’re lost

I feel badly sometimes

When I walk by

And they go off

With their wheezy, edgy, staccato

Yorkie barks

I call out their names

“Here, Cousin It…Here Huckleberry—

You’re such good dogs!”

But they’re not

Having any of it, believing me

To be a thief, a bad guy

Or a malevolent soul

Of some kind

And they diligently

Keep me at bay—

The threat I represent

Right outside

The door.