Hardboiled

"All men are dogs, or wolves,"
he said, cigarette protruding, dangling.
"So some of us are loyal."
I was waiting by the hearth, a poker
by my side. "And I suppose I'm the moon,"
I said, blinking furiously. "Or is that
too silly?" A dog from the pound's
gonna have a history,
and some of it might not be pretty.
He might growl if he thinks
you're being a bully.
Still, it's too silly to be truly wanted,
so I'm cowering in the corner.
"You aren't going to bite me,
are you? Just howl?" I ask.
"If you're the moon,
do I have a choice?"

The Tempest

The wind is future oriented--
memorizing no moment,
waiting for nobody.
Meanwhile, the spider lays her eggs
in dirty laundry, fashions
a nest within the seam
of a favorite shirt.
She considers no one but herself--
not the skeleton that dazzles
the window left behind,
not the danger of this new space.
Strong breath, wind that carries with it
a purpose no other wind has, or does it?
I blow, I evict this family, new and naive--
refugees left to wander, so many of them,
the wind immediately forgetting each one.

Lake Merit

I watched the turtle in the water,
not knowing if it was alive.
He had to remind me that even death is useful.
Once we no longer need this skin,
something else can use it,
be nourished by it, appreciate it.
I only thought about the turtle,
not about the scavengers, the slight waves
in the water that made the turtle move.
I was happy to see it at first, innocent.
Just like I was when we first
saw the rabbit by our stoop.
"So cute," I probably said,
not knowing any better.
Later, we found it in the same spot,
frozen, and we grieved.
What do we do with our love but spend it?
I stop making connections beyond
the larger creature, beauty stopping
before the cosmos but after the pulse.
The microorganisms deserve a fair shake;
they're here too, feeding and yearning,
and Jesus, aren't we all.

He Thinks He's Teddy Roosevelt

Fake smiles, trimmed with fake concern:
I know a cue when I see one.
With Arsenic and Old Lace, you
at least smile at all the right parts.
I suppose there is always a gap between
how you are with me and how you are with practice.

The gun in the glove compartment is yours
if you want it back. I'm sure you'll need it.
Unless your weapons have changed.
Last I checked, they did not:
We set the stage in black and white,
supplies ready, organized. I remember.

The acid burned through the flesh between ribs,
between yesterday and today, between smiles.
After that, my nerves were exposed; I thank you.
I thank you for needing me, looking away.
Still, I find myself waiting by the phone,
waiting for another job, another careful plan.

Does anyone call a random number
just to have someone to talk to?

Silent Treatment

I see my shadow, but I've
got nowhere to hide.
No lair seems a feasible option.

I'm asked if I'll stay here, but if
it means I'll continue to endure
cold wind on my back, I'd rather not.

I'd rather go
where I'm actually wanted,
and I don't feel wanted here.

If today repeated itself,
repeated itself, I might
eventually take comfort
in knowing your pattern.

Instead, there is none.
You lock the door,
take the key with you,
and I'm the bad guy.

Today, my shadow is bigger than I am.
Today, I focus on the lies you told,
trinkets left by the window,
my only escape.

Because you won't speak, you force
me to be silent. I'm not supposed to tell anyone
the stories you collected,
strung tightly in the dark.