My Conveyance
The tires are low
but
who has time to pump them up.
And the tread on the back driver's side
is wearing thin
but it'll last for what I need to do today.
The engine
protests with every mile.
Needs an oil change,
new belts, a carburetor
with less
of an attitude.
And the battery's no prize.
I turn the
key ten times
before it kicks in.
But I'll take what I have.
It's
only today after all.
No one's promised me tomorrow
so why prepare for
it.
So I stall out at the light on Cunningham.
And the brakes give me
that uneasy feeling
that any squeeze of foot on metal
could be their
last.
But how many times does a man
need to stop this day.
As long
as those brakes and I
are agreed on the number
then they can go on
squealing
like an eagle's talons down a blackboard.
I've enough car
for enough time,
enough gas,
enough body and mind
to move this
clunky heap of metal
from where I am
to where it needs to go.
I am,
after all, this moment,
not the next,
this breath,
not twenty
breaths from now.
The car is my awareness,
my identity.
It can
always get me where I am,
no problem.
I See The Kid
Arrested
I'm wondering
what he did,
what I did,
what we all
did.
And who are those
guys
snapping the cuffs
on
the wrists
of that scared
kid,
on my wrist,
on all wrists,
He's being led
away
and I've no
clue
where he's
going,
where I'm
going,
where all of us are
going.
But soon he's
in
the cop car
and gone
and I'm still
here.
He gets what
he has coming to
him.
It's no longer
coming through
me.
Sites
We drive by the site of
the murder.
No body, no
blood-stain,
no cop car with whirring
siren,
no ghoulish
bystanders.
But there's no people
either.
Not a soul in
sight.
It's just this brick
wall
with faded election
poster,
a sidewalk with weeds
poking
through the
cracks.
I stop the car, get
out.
You stay
behind.
I am exactly where the
victim was.
You could be as
close
as the killer.
We're at the site of a
murder
and it feels as
if
I'm the first since
then
to stand here and
wonder,
what if it happens to
me.
And who but
you,
from such close
range,
could ask
yourself
what if he's the
one
I do it to.
It's not even a murder by
this.
H could be
love
for all we
know.
It could be
whatever
we feel or
fear
could happen with
another.
No violence, no
death,
no arrest, no
execution.
But we leave the site of
that murder
like it's the crime-scene
of something in our
lives.
Photograph Of A Beach
Bum
No reason to smile
apparently,
despite the comfortable
beach chair,
the umbrella, scattered
petals
of sun and shadow all
over
the face and bare
torso.
The warm isnt
happiness enough.
The gifts of clean sea
air
and sand twinkling his
toes
just cant move that
mouth
in the direction of
joy.
When I was his
age,
a day by the
shore
was like a breakout
from the jobs
jail,
a blessed
hideout
from other peoples
expectations.
But wait,
this is a picture of
me.
Im not just lolling
about
in the gorgeous
weather.
Im not enjoying
myself.
And Im busy doing
whatever
should anyone be looking
for me
in 1987.
Man In A Gray
Suit
Yes, I wore the
suit,
the tie,
and crossed the
threshold
from real life
into
corporate.
I made believe
that a flow chart
mattered more than any
lifeline,
and a sign on the
wall
that read
Teamwork
was ten thousand times
superior
to Catcher In The
Rye.
For the bottom line
was
that I had to make a
living.
Though, to my
bosses,
the bottom line
was the bottom
line.