Thursday happy hour
tabletop, sticky with beer
a saint, undisturbed
☯
Bus driver, stone-faced
under a handlebar ‘stache
lets the cyclist live
☯
Power, knowing that
you never get this moment
to regurgitate
☯
“I am still freezing”
from Tolstoy’s summation of
his Russian winter
☯
That someone would come
along but no, really you
have to save yourself
☯
Seahawks umbrella
shredded in spikes by the storm
then the wind steals it
☯
The can tumbles west
the wind blows it back uphill
a boy’s first memory
☯
I sprout my father’s grin
his sad smile upon my face
when it all goes wrong
☯
Lone crow with acorn
ignores its murder across
from the pot clinic
☯
No one notices
as I brush the moth beneath
the neon “OPEN”
☯
A smaller moth darts
through that left front burner coil
one pot on to boil
☯
Black bird on red ball
fifty feet out in Green Lake
preening for balance
☯
To dirty our hands
on this salutorious
sticky universe
☯
Bright but cold, again
Steam escaping a laundry
First day of autumn
☯
Gave myself credit
for the light burning upstairs
but that’s mostly luck
☯
Water from the well
oscillating in its pail
summer’s shortest night
☯
I want to believe
droplets slouching for the drain
oblige all I ask
