Potomac Exhales

On the train to D.C. you can feel

the river breathe the short breaths

of the tide and the deeper

sighs of the seasons.

Inhale and the cherry blossoms
flare pink on the riverbank.

Exhale and they flutter to the ground

and melt in brown ooze.

So with Summer when the throngs

in t-shirts recite half remembered history

to bored children who want

to drink cherry Coke and buy

trinkets in red, white, and blue.

National Poetry Writing Month NaPoWriMo begins today. I am going to try it again this year.

American Sentence ripped from the headlines, or page B depending on your hometown

Headless body duffel-bagged between the rails makes the trains late today.

Back to School

The time of year when the sun takes the color
Of pages in a paperback left too long on a shelf,

September makes Underwood remember school
And a girl who gave him a book.

"You should read this. It reminds me of you."

September makes Underwood think of promises and lies,
Books he did not read. A sun will come up
Tomorrow
But not this one. Every day passing
Is a torn-out page.

Underwood studies the mirror, researching
The cause of each wrinkle. Considers

Buying a pink shirt, maybe some shoes.
This time of year everything's on sale.

Hurricane brings the beat, but we ain't dancing.

A storm down south pushes funky

air through every crack and wrinkle.

We cannot get naked enough

To vent the heat or cool our skin.

The clouds are clothing us. We wear

rain for a hat. The wooly-wet

a river-muddied Saint Bernard

who wants to be your best friend.

Venus Looks Downrange

As she lowered herself

Onto me, she took

A sharp breath and held it,

The way a marksman waits

Between heartbeats before

Pulling the trigger.

Venus on a Tile Floor

She emerged from the shower

Flourishing her towel,

The cape of a matador

In the heart of a warm

Spanish afternoon.

A Walk Through the City with an Invisible Bear on a Chain.

Listening for rain, like a kid on Christmas
waiting for the hooves of reindeer
on the roof. Please Santa, bring me
some lightning wrapped in a bow.

Thunder, the sound of a storm getting its license
to drive wet and loud, out of sight of the clouds
who now question the decision to give him the keys.
His friend the wind will lead him to trouble.

By mid-August, the sun seems a little older,
yellowing like the edges of an old photograph.
A scattered few leaves change colors --
in the mirror, the greying of my own hair.