The words of forgiveness and suffering

were not easy to listen to,

what with images of dancing and touch

coming so closely with the heat

of the rising sun.

Learning to welcome worldly torment

hoping for otherworldly release

because I am alive and utterly human;

the form we have is not ours to keep.

the sky is too open

with no confessor to be found;

the cravings multiply:

flannel on an autumn porch

mouths too busy to talk

silence with no judgement

boots or books pushing onward

to a darkened view of an angel

back-alley revelation

fragments of flesh that don’t fit

but want to be held together

and (oh god!) be loved

the feeling of generous friction

where stars used to be found –

don’t let the world awaken yet

quiet spaces in the forest

lists of things to remember

keep. pressing. buttons.

a lifetime of foolish choices

based on inward frenzy

and a faraway call for peace

People were lined up at least seven deep.

They wanted red meat and kale

and deliverance from endless flossing.

I only wanted cookies.

The rain clouds were moving in.

Cookies were being baked in a corner.

A coffee display toppled over.

A woman with caterpillar lashes sold stamps.

A tabloid extolled the bravery of couture.

A baby cried.

I wonder how Gershwin would score this.

I know Man Ray would see a tragicomedy.

I would take tea from a chipped cup in Dresden

and imagine a garden of books

with some pages filled, some open and empty.

I wanted to be

a less caustic Kurt Vonnegut or

a less condescending Ray Bradbury

with a touch of Holly Hobbie

and maybe a smattering

of Dolly Parton.

I now drive a wagonload of Frank O’Hara

mixed with shredded Mrs. Roper,

though I’m not full-muumuu yet…

Artificial Intelligence tells me I look like

Kate Winslet or Nat King Cole

and while I wish for timeless elegance,

I rather think I’m a goldfish

not far from the final flush.

I may spend more time making shortbread

than poems, but I like to think

when you’re through with me,

you feel you’re reading spirograph art.