The gods of morning call to us

when we retrieve the news

outside the wrought iron door.

They speak through birds and leaves

and the silence that falls down cool.


Old Ed Bean arrives in his dented coup,

arguing politics and baseball.

A great leaping beast laps at the tailpipe,

redfaced, disjointed, frisky,

it’s tongue long and raw as sunrise.


We join other cars on the freeway,

take turns saying, “Once this was a farm.”

The creature chases us as far as the bridge,

falls behind, and the city

collects its toll.


In the compound of brick and traffic lights

faces in car windows become clear.

We congregate in office malls

for soup and salad and bring home music

to wail by in the evening.


In leather recliners we’ll sink

in television light,

flipping for plots with surprise endings,

calamity in Peru ,

somebody’s love affair.



Contents / Next Poem / Published Works