The Twins (poem)

You are flanked by two Geminis,
two women who equal four,
and they are your watchdogs,
your guardian angels, your beating
heart. They are high priestesses,
one dark and one light, one soft
and one hard, four hands, four feet,
four sets of eyes. They love you
and keep you safe from the world
you construct. You see them and know --
there is only one way out alive.
They will lead you there.

With No Earphones in, I Hear This (poem)

A homeless man I know
screams "HELLO! HELLO!"
from across a wide Boston
street. He spotted me!
I look up and over to see him
waving frantically, gloved hand
in the air. "MERRY CHRISTMAS!"
he yells. "HAPPY HOLIDAYS!"
I cup my hands and return, "HELLO
THERE! BACK ATCHA!"
and my pit is strangely warmed
by this clear recognition
of an unlikely friend across four
lanes of December traffic.

Into the Eyes (poem)

Eyes have stared at me
this week, eyes belonging to men
I've known a long time.
One of them sez to me,
"You deserve the best --
you have a great ass and
a great personality and
you need a man who wants you
and only you." I smile
at him, old friend, and say,
"Yes" and "Thank you."
The other eyes just stare
with little to say besides
"Yes" and "Thank you."
Irony is never wasted
on me even though I clamor
for a longer stare into the eyes
of someone who is right,
who wants to look only
into my eyes, like I deserve.

Brunch on a Barstool (poem)

The best moment of my life
was beside you in a bar
in broad daylight
as we chatted idly
about our lives. God,
were we hung over!
Even so, we were coherent
and in-sync and you looked
into my eyes, I into yours
as you offered up cliché –
“Eyes reveal everything.”
Yours said something about love
and mine acted as mirrors
and this is exactly what
I never knew I needed.

It Sounds Like Bing Crosby Backed Up by Brass (poem)

This song makes me want to dance
in 1944, long-gowned and gloved,
blushed cheek rested on a dark wool suited
shoulder, feeling the sway in the syllables,
the syncopation of words sung
to swelling sounds of horn and harp
and string and piano. Transplanted,
my eyes are closed and I am warm and whole in this
period peace where a nobler war was fought
than would ever be fought again.
There is such tranquility in the swishing
of taffeta and lace, a home spun elegance
found more deeply as musical measures
amble by. I want to be in love
in this dance, this era, this chance
at being something as simple
as present in the embrace
of a slow stepped dance.

Staged. (poem)

The man and woman stand
under a stark white spot
light; they are dressed in black
and posed close enough to look
uncomfortable. This is a stage.
They are the players. This theatre
is silent so when he speaks,
his voice is a knife severing silence.
“This could be more,” he says.
The woman remains blank
and gives the audience shivers.
“You could be more,” she says
and turns to leave him alone
under that light. This is life.
They are living it. This world
offers nothing as he stands stock still
and the audience mills by, into
the night where she left him.

What Happens (poem)

My brain is leaking, liquefied,
down the right side
of my chin, after oozing from my ear,
the quickest drain,
the easiest escape once the matter
has reached its maximum
heat and melted.
This is my lobotomy.
I’ve used my cells for too many
years now and now and now
I barely recall the smell of rain,
the stench of free will,
the overpowering olfactory sensation
of my perceived who what when where.
I am dead. I am no more
the woman you knew before
my essence was baked and reduced
into syrupy nothing. All for what.
I don’t remember anymore, I can’t.
I just nod now. And I smile.
You tell me what for and I will say
yes yes yes yes yes.