Last I looked
the world was gone
then
It was back again
in the blink of an eye–
Mondays are like that;
apocalyptic
overblown–made
of healing
and transition–
the center meridian
on the 101
is full of cups and plates
cans and litter
which no one
will stop to pick up–
maybe I should go back
and do it myself;
be of service–stay
in the moment, before
becoming a victim
of my own
dark design.

It sounded
Like she was back–
the girl next door
who he’d thrown out
so she could get
her life together
and stand on her own–
I heard her voice
like a child’s
or a butterfly
on the stair (if
Butterflies could talk)
saying something about
him being “nicer” and “sweeter”
But I wasn’t sure;
it could have been “icy” and
“meaner” through the window
a few minutes passed
then a door slammed
and she was gone again–
the girl from tomorrow
who’d made it back today
but didn’t last
longer than
a few minutes.

The fat men
deliver my meal
with their big hands
like those
of a Picasso model
in a painting–
they can’t cook
my food
but they bring it;
I pour them rare wines
which they accept
with wide eyes–
goblets and glasses
of ruby liquid
I talk about vintage
and style, fruit
complexity and barrels–
they drink it down
grateful for the taste
If they want more
I give it;
I don’t worry
about disparity–wine
makes everyone
equal.

I felt something–
a promising feeling
But it was only Santa Ana
wind in branches
agitated on Sunday
Someone was at the door
But I opened it
To emptiness in a world
That is not as
it was anymore
I see the holes and edges
Of attrition–sharp
and gaping; a sun
that warms but is indifferent
Rivers and oceans that hold
mysterious, untold waters;
we drink them
and they course through us
like messages back
to source unheralded–
I have asked
for the moon again
And gotten mute stars
voices in the canyon
are threatening
Not laughing
as they once were
what has happened
Except the years stacked
Like yellow calendars
marked off in a drawer?
Thankfulness more
Like fatigue
has me curled on the bed
searching for a sleep
that does not come
easily.

I’m awake
at 5:00am;
aren’t we all
in some way?
About to make tea
(wishing it was strong coffee)
and running out of patience
with my short temper
lack of sense
and edginess;
a middle age crisis
in denial at the moon–
too bright at the window
not a romantic
one but an annoyance–
nothing sexual
about its stark, bleached
glowering face
in the blackness
OK, well maybe–
But for me
It comes down to moods
sometimes giddy and grateful
in this darkness, today
I’m a grouch–
the officer yesterday
with his yellow, automatic
weapon unsnapped gave me
a speeding ticket for going 71
in a 55, delivered
his solemn lecture
on the deserted road
outside Lompoc that
I “really needed to slow down…”
I agree, though I argued
against the scribbled citation
I agree, but I’m still
pissed off.

I haven’t seen you
for ten years–that
doesn’t mean you’re not happy
LIke how happy we all were
14 years ago at Lake Champlain, Shelburne
To be there, the beginning
of Fall, the mythic leaf turn
(it was true, a pleine aire, an exhibit)
The all-night party, that girl
getting drunk and driving across the lawn
making love in our own room
later on; pretending our marriage
might not be far off–it
would not be the case for us–
But for you–under the tent
in the big field, in white
I think you made it work
and have the teenagers
and the legacy to prove it
As for me, and the poem
on the way to your wedding–
I’m still considering
sometimes daily
what went wrong.

You said
“No”
But I heard
“Yes”
As if all
Our night time wishes
came to rest
in one tea cup
on a table;
I look in
for a last sip
but find
that you have
taken it.

Delicious–
the wine I cannot drink;
I make my notes
anyway: “berries,
redolent of spices, red fruits–
well made…” Then
I think of you
imperfect as the moon
such good intentions
your endearing
memorable face–
Delicious, I am sure;
the rest of what
is in this glass
but I pour it
down the drain
I must–I’ve been warned
to not fall in love
with danger, again.

This tea
smells of
whole other cultures
and worlds–
Youth, I am sure
is regained
with every sip
and love
comes closer
in its goldenness
Wait–there
at the edge
of the china lip
to my mouth
a scent, too
of you–musk;
a summer beach
early one
August afternoon
A wary look
in your eye
as you left me
to brew another
strong pot &
wonder.

I return
to thoughts of her
as to springtime
In Paris once
33 years ago
a dark hour
of the soul–
I shouldn’t go there;
silk shirts lying
in a second drawer
an apartment near
the Rue Monge;
another life;
I can’t relive again
what I lost–
and that knife sharpener
with his cart
in the stone alley
calling out
for clients–
waking me up
so early
next to her,
calling out.