The Tear in Her Blouse
Her speech clipped as if
by scissors, her walk a sling
that shoots her into view,
the tear in her blouse
unknown to her.
Her smile a softened glare,
her mouth a line straight
as a ruler that fuels her
forward into a future
which consists of just
exactly this: slinging
hash six days a week
to wrecks like us
who search for tears in the fabric
that holds her together.
Tiny Blue Jars
Keys kept on shelves
in tiny blue jars
too high to reach
or are they shells
of escargot
painted Provencal blue
and Dijon yellow
the final effect
a shade of jade
revered in France
where we wake
to red wine stains
shaped like keys
on the couch
the party over
the jar unsealed
the secret out
String I Must Pull
When the man who walks our street
eleven times a day explains
his blood is a blend of Rhode Island Red
and several shades of blue
I try to disappear
but he touches my arm lightly,
his still-nimble body clad in leaves,
his smile a plea that pulls
(string that hangs from a bare white bulb
screwed into a ceiling
stained by juices that flow from trees)
then pushes the doubts I had away.
His knees are pistons that almost ignite
when he marches in place
and his syllables spill
onto the sidewalk beneath us,
settle around my shuffling feet
until with his wing he wipes
whatever he’s said aside.