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?

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

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

He licked for blues
and all she could do
was cower behind a curtain
as a menacing dawn
crept over the hills

He had traded doubt for sun
and her days ended in why

do street lamps enjoy rain
or do they whisper
jazz standards
until dawn?