I had gone to this spot to pray
on a mid-afternoon street in the city
so busy the cars rarely make time to drive
as they sit for hours and hours on end
where I got the vague sense of familiarity
commonly experienced cloud-watching
when you see a single cloud, all alone,
way way up in the endless sky you just know
is about to change forms from a beach-ball
to an elephant then into an elephant balancing
a beach-ball at the tip of its trunk
before the sun swallows the whole dang circus whole
right before a thunderstorm rolls in
to remind you that without a dang umbrella
- of potential spots you could have come to -
this particular spot is good a pick as any;
so I sat down on the spot and crossed my legs
like a proud Native American
(or disgusting American hippie, depending)
pulling a squished ham sandwich bleeding
mayo and mustard into its proper plastic body bag
from my back-hip pocket and in one bite
swallowed the whole dang thing whole just in time
for the 2:30pm metro bus to repay the favor
to my forehead, which does feel better, thanks, God,
but you’re an a-hole for even asking.
5/28
He's that guy that slays you,
always charming, ready &
eager to lend a helping hand,
a garish smile tucked in his hip pocket --
he's your friendly next door neighbor,
the quintessential serial killer
It is Monday morning, time to unwind.
today I do laundry and I'm behind.
My son's pile is first and guess what I find:
Whiff of autumn wafts in the air
coming from a jacket pocket -
half a used caramel apple.
Still wrapped crackers labeled: "For: Claire"
cheddar cheese and peanut butter
mostly crumbs now in a lone glove.
Small New Testament lies entrapped
in the hip pocket of his jeans
a gift from someone in chapel.
Three permanent markers uncapped
the last of treasures dug out from out
the laundry. It's labor called love.
Some days I'd have washed it all with no care.
Today I find my washer needs repair,
which leaves me time to ponder, "Who is Claire?"
Feb. 20, 2013
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