Quotidian

they have passed here
every morn lo thirty years
in the winter each breath
unfurls a flag of moistened mist
in the summer flapping loose their
ragged shorts and thin worn slippers
nary give a nod a neighbor for
better friends there attached by leashes
them the same never mindful of the season

            ~ ~ ~

Outdated

clothed in darkness

slippers stead of sandals

the dew yet wet upon the lawn

gray hair rustles without her comb

paces direct ahead save

an alerting gaze askance a chance

another may she encounter

back home

seeing none save her paper awaits

to find the news of Yesterday

               ~ ~ ~

The Angler Motel

clip_image002

I don’t know why I can’t erase my mind’s picture of the place. It comes less often than before, but when it does, it is more vivid, more deeply ingrained and yields to no neglect.  I knew I had to go again.

I came upon it first; it was the early sixties, its faded neon lights flashing Angler Motel at the top of the hill where it lay beneath a grey-capped, peach-sherbet sky.

In the parking lot, pot-holed and graveled, I sat solitary in my car trying to decide whether I understood her invitation or if I was foolishly entertaining my inclination to fantasize.

I followed her from the diner, her subtle invitation I inferred.  I drove fewer than ten miles, lost her briefly when she topped the hill, and then almost driving past the place myself, I saw her tear-drop tail lights go dim.

I followed, no less assured fate drew me there.  Now I waited while she attended matters at the front desk. 

I didn’t know her.  Or maybe I did.  And there was something about this place; solitary atop the hill where lovers’ dreams born here, blow away, sucked up in the wake of speeding tractor-trailers and weary travelers rushing past, pressing on, opting for a better place.

I was older now.  Wiser too.  Yet here I was again, transplanted amidst neon vacancies and croaking frogs, immersed in the wistfulness of Elusive Butterfly, whispers from the AM dial.  Waiting.  Wondering . . . when would she be here too?

` ` `

Menagerie

they condemn old oaks in sections and let them fall.

the asphalt snake spews its venom on the winding trail.

the lake glimmers yellow diamonds and fawns the sun

critters conspire stay aloof from them inflict their fear

the clowns on wheels their soft back turtle heads

plugged ears and asses tightly stitched won’t find their seats.

                                      ~ ~ ~

Return top