Don’t drink the gravy

Rail-splitters don’t often get lost
in cyberspace
and when they stroke themselves,
it’s most often to the cadence
of old Chevy turn signals-
you know, the ones on dusty,
almost-forgotten intersections
near stations with the most heartache.

Heavy timber aside,
fatigue (from fresh air)
draws stalwart pickle-eaters
to diners with open-faced sandwiches
and lots and lots of gravy.
Coffee mistaken for counsel,
grumbles covering pride,
old men fighting for place.

No room for an ode
where a limerick may go,
words to such men
are akin to reading a backwards clock,
hoping to predict weather
by counting knee aches and cricket chirps.
They split hours, laughing at young love
keeping their coffee and gravy in place.



Morning has been so quiet,
I can hear the humming
of my house-
refrigerator, clock’s second hand,
whirring fan, laptop charging.
My own breath sounds enormous
and when I open a window,
birds scream and the sky laughs with wind.
I stay just inside the door,
unsettled within but not at all sure
I want to go out.
Moving freely but days ago,
shivering in place now.

I would like to tuck away
these times in-between.


no, I am not rust or caramel
but I love those things
and they take up
inordinate space
in my imagination

will you read to me
on a rainy afternoon?

Cereal prize

hunkered down in front
of a radio, hearing war stats
and pie recipes,
there is nothing for it
but to grow a story from
the button box-
like great-grandma in her apron

there’s a streaming thunderstorm
bringing the funk to town
in wingtips and filigree

is macadam, rubber
cracked tables
wild weeds taking up the periphery
with shouting, bounces
twitching fingers
driving faster than the plow
if blowing, shadows