Leaves

I slump down on the concrete bench,
Iced wind and wet droplets cling to my hair,
And I notice the yellow leaves,
Dancing.

And I fall away from the sounds
Of the shoppers,
Of the traffic,
Of my life.
Behind my lids,
I can almost see an old friend.

He never stood.
But sat contently,
Filled with the joyous labors,
Of three devoted kin.

He wore old bluejeans,
And a flannel button-down shirt,
And never failed to smile.
He knew he was loved.

We really brought him to life,
Bursting with red and orange leaves.
The painted smile on his face,
He played quite a vital role.

But Gomer is gone.
He left a long time ago.
And he took something of mine with him.

Leaves.
Leaves.
Leaves.
Why did you leave?

I open my eyes,
To see that I’m running late for work,
And that I still have two papers left to write,
And that once upon a time,
Was a long time ago,
And I shuffle off to work,
Through the leaves.

Leaves.
Leaves.
Leaves.
Why did you have to leave?

Boston Harbour

Black ripples,
wash against familiar granite,
worn smooth in time
with clanking halyards.

The granite seawall
remembers my heels,
banging silently
to the pulse
of my harbor.

The wind, here,
always carries away
the weight from my chest,
on a seaweed breeze.

I don't know
that behind me,
is a comatose city
that can't hear
the rigging's laughter
or taste the veritable calm,
that I cannot live without.

To Build a Hill

Today, I pulled a small, grateful ant
off the back of my tongue.

I was shocked.
I stared at my palm,
I watched little red legs wriggle franticly,
Before I swiftly flung him into the grass.

Hours later, pressed hard against the wall of my shower,
I cried.

Most days, I am the ant.
To be atomic, in an astronomic world,
Is grueling.

Not often enough,
Do we build our own hill,
But wait to be pulled,
From off the back of a tongue.

The Easter Dress

Thin, itchy dress,
Naked feet,
And a tummy full of colored eggs and chocolate,
She slips between the warm sheets,
And falls asleep.

Her mind dances,
Remembering egg hunts:
Soft green grass,
Cadbury’s golden sweets,
And the surprise of always winning.
She dreams of roast lamb,
Of grandparents,
Of family holding her close.

She wakes,
To find herself still in the clutches
Of the itchy Easter dress.
She grabs a yellow blanket,
And with feet still bare,
She tiptoes to the porch.

A yellow mass huddling on the plastic chair,
Sunrise still an hour away,
She drags her sleepy eyes over dark blue skies,
And lights her cigarette.

Nineteen years.
She wonders how many more are left;
Where chocolate eggs will appear attractive,
And Easter dresses, however itchy,
Are still adored.

Tureen

I am,
A soup tureen that hasn’t seen the likes of chowder, or minestrone or vichyssoise,
In ages. I’m empty. Sullied. Still sticky with the residue from vegetables.

I am,
A soccer ball that hasn’t seen the likes of grass, or children or even a cleat,
In ages. I’m deflated. Lifeless. Left bruised and drained in the back of your garage.

I am,
An acerbic old woman who hasn’t seen the likes of passion, or warmth, or her cycle,
In ages. I’m hollow. Barren. Still existing with the memory of miniature hands and feet.

I want soup. Not your soup, don’t touch me. I want my soup.
My steaming, torrid elixir, my soup with ferocious lions and dainty songbirds.
And I want air. Not your air, your gray smog—I want life and oh, I want to feel.