From Barhopping with Scarlett O'Hara
Edgar Allan Poe's Wife Virginia Signs Up for Netflix
She loved the romantic comedies
devoured them on nights
when her husband spewed
his murder and mystery onto the page
loved the way Cary Grant's hand
tenderly stirred a wisp of curl
from some woman's cheek
without veering to grip her throat
loved Clark Gable on a moonlit balcony
the intense sway and swoon
of his impassioned rhythm
with no tell tale mayhem of the heart
loved how Robert Redford kissed the ear
the tilted neck, the fragrant shoulder
that gentle crave of lower and lower
lacking any pendulum of madness
loved that the night's darkness
held only a sweet skulk
of stars, the charming
dash of a ravenless moon
From A Girl, Her Slipper, and Yesterday's Rainbow
Saturday Evening
It was a girl | not Horace | who lured me west | we met at a bowling alley | the lone females that night | surrounded by winter cowboys | drunks | random grabbers | Wouldn’t this place look good | in the rear view mirror? | she asked | jerking her thumb | toward the door | my boyfriend was one of the drunks | so I followed her out | her hair an inky river | satin water on a sunny day | ears slathered in dazzling dots | Georgia O’Keeffe skull gracing her neck | I was simple as a sidewalk | so I nodded | hoping something swank | would fasten onto me | adventure blazed like the idea of yonder | I went home | crammed a backpack | left a note for my parents | and nuzzled into her van | it wasn’t the only rash thing | I’d ever done | just the most bizarre | I welcomed fate | like a holiday | rolled down my window | and waved to the town limit sign | letting the jabber of stars | coax me on | to Sunday morning
From The Dull Woman Poems - coming next year from Kelsay Books
The Dull Woman and the Green Bike
My knees were hurting from the long walk
So, I stopped to browse the yard sale
The old bike was hidden behind a dresser
Scratched and dirty, the color of kale on a bad day
I paid the woman the $5
She apologized for the bike’s plainness
I apologized for mine
She smiled. unsure how to take my response
Streamers now grey and faded
One speed our only speed
Seat big and lumpy
Tires a bit flabby
I hadn’t ridden a bike in decades
I gave the rusty bell a jangle
Just to let the world know
I was coming through
From Reckless Pilgrims
Eavesdropping on Poets at the Coffee House
Each week the faithful:
tattoos and yoga pants,
thick dark-rimmed lenses,
rainbow hair that veils
faces already hard to read,
piercings like freckles,
voices flinging fuck
and vagina and mollie
with animated rage.
I write lilacs,
mourning doves,
tomatoes embarrassed on the vine,
lace collars and looking both
ways at crosswalks.
I am no one to them,
could be Anne Bradstreet
in my quaintness.
I reach for my cup,
coffee grown cold,
settle quiet in my chair
in case a whippoorwill--
something common
and familiar--
chants my name.
From The Shepherds of Tenth Avenue
The Table of My History
It belonged to Grandma Phyllis
Or maybe Great Aunt Gertrude
Anyway it had lived in the family dining room
For as long as I can remember
Well polished in myth--
It crossed the prairie in covered wagon
Came from Texas on the back of a mule
Sailed the Mayflower
Or maybe it survived dust storms
Wild animal attacks
Outlived famine and plague--
The Paul Bunyan of tables
Thick round mahogany top
Sturdy pillared base
Bulky struts with outturned ends
Leaves enough to extend the surface
For any birthday or reunion
My father hated it
Tried to stain it with coffee mugs
And cigarettes too long in the ash
The solid pedestal thumped his knees
Curved braces barked his shins
Upturned feet nipping his ankles
Left little room to tuck his long legs
After work and too many beers
Or maybe shots
Or laughs with familiar strangers
He would bring that fun home
Hurl it through the doorway
Stinking and swaying his merriment
Bounce if off the hall pictures
And around the living room walls
Then slam his fists into the table
We all hid behind closed doors
Terrified of too much joy
Mother would usually sneak out
To window shop, possibly seeing
A happy woman in the reflection
We left by the back door
To blast music on stoops
Or maybe play kick the can
In the twilight of forgetting
One Saturday he over-spiced his coffee
And took a saw to the table
Carried the top down to his basement workshop
Or maybe he rolled it down the stairs
Covered it with tools
And clamped a vice to the edge
We never found the bottom
When we came home
A folding card table stood in its place
Mother sitting stunned
She slowly walked into the guest bedroom
And closed the door
We didn’t see her for years
Clothes were cleaned and piled on our beds
School lunches, dinners appeared
As if some magical genie had landed
Sometimes we would creep down the silence
And find father in his workshop
Staring at the table top
As if unsure how it had gotten there
Or maybe as if it held the heart of the world