Walking the Dog Leg
Walking the dog leg, no sense
of time, space, or direction
just the taste for mimosa.
Birds and boats, gondolas
and the old firehouse, the
art, not just no flash
but no photos, thank you,
and scripts, stories, plates,
the trifecta in the sun
where three meander through
starfish talk. Insulated outside
the city lights, they connect the dots,
but do not touch, hewing
instead to wit and map and
walking the godforsaken dog leg.
**
What I heard on the train
Tax advice and investments
too, he told her she should
move money between
accounts. He told her,
but she didn’t want to mix
the mortgage with the rest
and she didn’t believe
him when he said it’s all in
the same place anyway.
Then there was the question
of dinner and if his daughter
had cooked, please God, no.
They were quiet. He called
the daughter and asked where
she’d like to be taken for dinner.
**
What I saw from the train
tired worn green house
in the middle of nowhere
broken panes of glass
somebody lived there once,
chose that shade of hope green,
now gone all to seed
**
Hurricane Like a Nor’easter
each wave subsides
raising a tide of cricketsong
even as the wind pitches again
toward shrieking
rivers fall and flow in drops
white stones on tumbled cloud gray
slashing along rooftops
branch-dragged
after two no-rainbow days
the rivers keep rising
putting the lie to the pacifist sky
