Walk across the street
the air was heavy like a Carolina bay in July
there was a sweetness that pushed limits,
like magnolias in the night at last bloom
.
sounds of road equipment
were North Philly and smells of industry
were Rittenhouse Square homeless
.
my hair blew across my face
with a whiff of highland perfume
and a tinge of woodsmoke
.
a train whistle heralded another century
when the town had lochs
and there was growth on the river
.
my brightly painted toes were a whimsy
from a decade of primal excess
and each step felt as good as breathing
.
the town clock chimed, same now as then
which meant time was the same
meaning little when you don’t pay attention
Encased
This week feels like walking encased
in cobwebs, shuddering and sputtering
without making any difference
except to make things worse.
.
“Why is everything a battle?” he cried
to the music in the background
as he drove everywhere too fast.
.
There are no answers, only signs
meaning everything and nothing depending
how literate you are with the heart.
.
The sign said to go forward a day at a time
which feels like trying to count sand in
an hourglass then releasing it on the beach.
.
In a world of todays, it’s hard to see
destinations when roads twist and jar,
making what’s ahead look like a wilderness.
.
“There’s always time,” she told me
but I knew better. We don’t always have a tomorrow.
Of the lion
Just on the other side of the window,
March winds are banging the hell out
of my house and trees and utilities.
.
It’s dark so I can only imagine the mayhem.
Usually, I wake to just some fallen branches.
.
They say weather is getting worse,
more severe, just like politics and children
running rampant without any filter.
Each generation wants to be the one
that survives the worst but we’re all just
spiraling as far from Eden as possible-
just with new vernacular.
.
The sky is roaring now, deep in the night
and I think of summer storms
and the relief of the after. I can’t imagine
the warmth or the green right now,
but I know it’s coming again.
Counterpane
Carrying sickness when you’re old
is not like the halcyon days
of soup and game shows, even if
there’s shag rugs and red juice.
There’s an added weight of knowing
some dying cells will never be replaced
and there are limited hugs left you.
Also, you have to pull your own blankets
and hope they’re enough to bury
worries of whatever else you’re not doing.
There’s plenty to fill the quiet but
little to draw you closer to the next season, if you’re to make it there.
