to sit on the sunny street
dying by ice cream
☯
I paused at the shouts
of the madman, five cop cars
to find my meaning
☯
But who, really, has
enough volume to be heard
over only the news…
☯
I don’t mind baseball
history–the Babe, Lou Gehrig,
1925.
☯
Downrush in the pipes
behind my bathroom plaster
someone else up late.
☯
Two trucks back up
beyond my blinds: “Für Elise,”
those first two notes
☯
I could fall in love
she’s six feet, a redhead
but then, what is love?
☯
“You sons of bitches!”
was her refrain as they took
away the wood bat
☯
My father, dying
much as he has lived, laughing
at everyone else
☯
We make our own hells
or heavens, here, he told me
he believes that, too.
☯
Thick traffic turtle
stove in on its southside end,
the bridge coming down
☯
A ballpoint I found
on the sidewalk, after rain
survived to write this.
☯
She swears and mutters
at each passerby, as her
cigarette reeks.
☯
Albert Ayler, drowned
out by the Final Four; one
already history.
☯
Neighbors’ argument
a distant radio show,
up elevator
☯
Reconciling
a motorcycle’s engine
to infinity
☯
Aztec Camera,
Tuesday night, my stocking feet
warmed by the heater.
