makeup

the lady behind the

counter at the corner

store told her it was

rude to eat bananas

in public.

stacked checks 

and cigarettes 

like dominos—learning to

taste the same, 

learning

to play the game. 

why wasn’t it rude to

eat cherries in public? 

the homeless boy

by the street lamp told her

she would look better

if she wore less

make up. 

out of tea bags, she hummed

through a mouth full of warm 

water and remembered

she wasn’t wearing makeup

actually. 

the tall man with the 

suit and the shoes that shined

in the stop light

asked her how much

for the night. 

she didn’t understand 

his question and asked

him for a cigarette. 

he smiled with 

his eyebrows as

she dropped the banana peel

lit up

turned away 

with implied thanks. 

rollers

walked aforementioned
walk forwardly—
indicate
the questionable 
epiphanies of

heroes without 
skill whose
Achilles heel lost 
broken ephemeral 

niceties, pushing manners
and hard pressed for 
the art of 
walking forward. 

You, dear love,
effortlessly got the twists out of 
your tight braids and
straightened your 

hair until you 
look like the kids 
and your jeers made
sneers look kind. 

Pressed lips for
the young like you’ve lost
it fast enough, lost 
it faster than

walking forward, 
aforementioned, 
pressed and clouded
above the broken 

glass. 

pocket change

What was a quarter then?
a nickel and a couple of dimes
             a heavy hand full of pennies
         hitting together to sound
  like double
            bubble rolling
down a glassy
                       grimey chute.


What was a dollar then?
 four quarters or the
                               paper prince
            flag of royalty
                               handed over on my own
with sticky fingers
for the double scoop of chocolate
                               and rainbow sherbet.


a quarter is 12 minutes on the meter
across from the 7/11 where
six dollars will buy a
pack of cigarettes and
the free packet of
cardboard matches.


a block down, coffee with soy
is
four
        seventy
                      five.
drink it because
it tastes expensive
drink it because
it is expensive


Pocket change wanted
                            the potential of bright
                                                      wide eyes
two-hands to hold it all, all
the coins, all
itty bitty promises the
clinking made while
I walked.


Pocket change sounds
           cheap now
 takes up space in my twenty-thousand penny purse.


Sticky fingers hand over dollars
aren't sticky from candy anymore-
sticky fingers and single dollars
                       mean so much more.
                      
I find a five on the floor and it is a single shot of the cheap stuff at the dive bar on my way home from work.
Lincoln holds no glamour to the dulled
                                                          swollen eyes
drop him in my twenty-thousand penny purse
and wonder if the
                       corner-girl, sparkle heels and
                                             greying teeth,
                      takes plastic.

Sailor's Sunday

short autumn sunlight
leaves time before night
only long enough
to tell a single drink
with the saddest story
on the rocks –
The garden beneath her windows is dying.
The flowers beneath her willow are dying.
Above her small house, an old flag is flying.

 left, west, sunset—when it’s red
puts sailors to bed
good dreams,
of wives’ lives, always
all ways white
in light
yellowed sunrise;

when the quiet hits the deck
when the quiet hits the men
when there is just the deck
and the men
and the sky
and the sea

they hit the quiet and
make up
memories
to pass time until sunset,
sunrise,
sunset,
sunrise.


That land is
the wrong land.


Ladies ashore—at
home, dream at the silky
black
bring him back
 and the children in their
waiting room sheets,
sleep nicely
concisely
precisely, and
make up
bad dreams
to pass time until sunrise,
sunset,
sunrise,
sunset.




Papa smoked nice cigars and whistled
while he worked.

No heroes.
No villains.
Just the deck and the
men and the sky
and the
sea.

Always the sink
and the sorrow
and the crash at that
time-passaged dawn
of tomorrow,
far out at waves
was nighttime storm
grown to be
a morning glory—
the kind that washes away story
and song.


No heroes.
No villains.
Just a wife at home
and a child and nightmares
and the sky
and the
sea.

Wives’ lives at home, baking
last of the bread
last of the milk to
soften last of the bread –

 dear husband’s dead.

She’s whistling while
she works, can't
remember his
old tunes and
making up
melodies
to pass time until –

Royal

Ruminating beside
the torches, walling
darkest corners,
leaving orange where
before
was nothing
but secrets and age.

King passes slowly
when he passes
breathes deeply
to remember
when orange
was brighter under
the gaze of
dimming
eyes.

Queen takes
detour to walk solely
in rays of
sun---
the sun Queen, she
once was---
and, when night swallows
blue, she
settles for the hues of
moon.

Prince drinks red wine,
tucked privately with
ladies in
always
waiting
who smell like spring
and are soft like the pillows
he rests his Princely thoughts
on at sunset,
breasts like pillows
of resting for Princely
thoughts. 

Princess has bags
beneath her baby eyes
and sickly skin
and ruminates beside
the torches, walling darkest
corners,
leaving orange
on her face where
before
was nothing.

King passes slowly
when he passes
and touches Princess
hand, peach and
soft, and Prince
quiets lady when the
King breathes deeply--orange
on his purple robe--King
knows what Queen
cannot see
by the bright sun and
white hues
of moon.

Princess prays to be
a vicar when she's aged,
but orange
and torches and
ladies do not find
God when they are
meant to find
throne.

give it a year

Clarity came shining through like
the middle of July,

telling me -- just what to do -- just who
to do -- 'just June?' you say.  

That faded day she turned away
and I laughed like May--all day

until April showers woke me
up and flowers from the

March-ing band at the
band-stand, moms with gerber daisies in hand

chanting for the boy whose
Valentine gave up February

for his coked out New Year's
kiss. Hers were

the bruises tainting Christmas
eve, leaving space for

the place at the Thanksgiving table, recycling
--for pies-- the pumpkins from Halloween.

Nothing happened in September.
Nothing ever happens then.

The sun burned and kept on
burning like August thirty-first

on freckled skin and a dimpled
chin, lobster pink and

shimmering like we're back
to the fourth of the July.

dishes

she has to walk into the kitchen
               barefoot in the kitchen
to find the cup of coffee you left yesterday
                                                                  that she never thought to wash
                                                                                                                                                   cracking

 pots of alfredo sauce -  your favorite dish - stacked in the sink

she used to think

if she could get it right (or just alright) 

that

when you would stop by 

at night

you might stay

the night

all through

til light

when she could make you another cup of coffee 

that she would 

                        conveniently 

                                             not think to wash