My old enemy,
Grown his thick bushy red beard
In the five years since.
☯
String of white tinsel,
Strung between two thin branches
Bowing to the breeze
☯
Her naked bottom
Visible in a white flash
Gone to thunder now.
☯
Electric fan blast
Cave-cold in my left armpit
DVD skipping.
☯
I watch the traffic
Or, did, until tall condos
Replaced the yoga barn
☯
How strange, to have come
this far only to end as
three lines on smooth stone
☯
Spicy paperback
Askew on dusty floorboards,
Good parts long torn out
☯
Limbless beauty, wins
the pageant and tiara
orange rose in her hair.
☯
One old man, one chair
Crackers thrown to five fleet crows,
Down from the streetlamp.
☯
Icy breeze floats, through
the stilled fan in the window,
down to brown whiskers
☯
My mouth, tensed or slack,
Shaping the breezes through me
Larger or smaller
☯
A tiny white feather
From no nearby bird, blown in
through a bus window
☯
Street maestro, wheedling
Can’t-lose dope deal, easy cash,
A 5 for 40?
☯
My bladder is full,
My ears suffused with Lester,
Teeth, clenched; soul, somewhere…
☯
Rail track, opposite,
As immobile on its side
As I am on mine.
☯
Cinnamon-swirl sky,
cloud-grey spiraled inside blue,
Lights on in the tower
☯
Telephone pole tar, melting
down at the base, sticky bright
like the back of my neck.
☯
Silhouette, stalking
downwind from dozing sentry
hands clutching cabbage.
☯
Outrage at the world
Swallowed, finally, thinking:
Don’t waste a good walk.
☯
“Some days are diamonds,
some days are stones”–and I stole
this from the busman.
