Just as he removed his hat
a dove flew by
clutching an olive branch.

The dove went back to the Ark,
bearing a message
that it was finally safe to land.

So the Ark settled on his bare head,
and animals poured out
and took refuge in his scalp.

Some made their way down
to the ears and nostrils,
entered his brain and took up residence.

They began to breed,
murmured and cackled and screamed
that he was holy ground.

This played hell with his concentration.
Work became impossible.
He was fired and became indigent.

I met him at a veterans’ shelter
where I’d gone to drop off clothing
for the winter ahead.

He told me, “They won’t shut up,
but at least there’s a rainbow in front of me
all the time.”

I dug through the bag I’d brought
and found him a new hat.
“I don’t need that —

wouldn’t want to chase away
another dove looking for
dry land.  But I do wonder

where that first bird
got that olive branch
and why she didn’t just lead Noah there.

What was wrong with that guy’s head?
Why didn’t she think it was good enough
for the animals if there were olive trees there?

Maybe I was meant to be the new world. 
When I think about it, I kinda feel sorry
for the guy who didn’t get chosen,

sometimes.  Maybe
he needs that hat?  He’s got to be
cold.”

This plane I’m on
is falling to earth,
and I’m still growing.

This train I’m on
is swerving from the track,
and I’m still growing.

This car I’m in
is aimed at the wall,
and I’m still growing. 

The needle
and the hot shot are waiting,
and I’m still growing.

The bullet and the knife
are prepared,
and I’m still growing.

How clogged I’m becoming
from poisonous food.
I’m still growing.

How angry the liver,
how broken the aorta.
I’m still growing.

If I fade into the couch
and stop moving today,
I’ll still be growing

until all the hair and nails
and bones and fat cells and organs
decide to call a strike.

This body is
unfinished business
until it decides otherwise.

From the yoga pants
to the pretty hemp bag,
she’s the very model
of the modern conscious mom;

if we walked together
there would be wonder at how
we’d found each other,
and how the child came to be

because I am anything but
that match you’d expect for her,
and all my fantasies are unnatural
and full of folly;

we don’t pass through the same circles
and a guy like me is the furthest thing
from her mind.  In fact, she’s the furthest thing
from my mind as well; one moment

of wonder does not a crush make. 
I can’t see me being that close
to anyone that clean and honest
in her enthusiasm

for the care and feeding
of family and the rest of the world.
I’m a dirty bird with a bad heart
and a trail of smoke in my mouth

almost all the time.  Women like her
set me to thinking
how I got here, that’s all;
I like where I am, as she must like

where she is.  Any thought
of connection is silly.
Any thought at all that contains
the both of us in it is sillier still.

So I’m headed for the beer aisle
instead of lingering near her,
and that’s a good thing for both of us
and for that kid she’s pushing

in the stroller that costs more
than I make in a week.  I’ve got
my own stuff to do without taking
a single moment to do for another.

Anyway, if we were somehow to meet
I’d probably have to quit smoking
and get a real job, and I imagine
neither of us would like the guy

who’d be left in my skin
once that had happened.
Best to not even entertain
such thoughts.  Best

to pass as ships in broad daylight
with plenty of distance between us.
I don’t even know how I got on this,
and it’s time to let it go.

Re-gifting:

the Christmas tree burned
in a barrel
by six homeless men

who are feeding from
discarded party platters;

earlier, one crumpled up
discarded wrapping
collected from many recycling bins
to insulate the refrigerator box
he’ll sleep in.

A luxury car in a mortgaged driveway.
A sleeping family down the hall, up the stairs.

A shark’s head mounted on the den wall.
A fat ass in the leather desk chair.

A sandwich and a beer on the desk.
A porno on the computer screen.

A shift in his eyes.
A wriggle in the seat.

A possibility?
A way out?

A moment before the flickering scene passes.
A forearm wiped slowly across his damp mouth.

A second click.
A replay. 

To remove your clothing
in public
is dramatic, perhaps even brave
or useful; to put clothing back on
when one has been
publicly nude
is also dramatic, but
this is not usually done
for an audience, as most
prefer the end of mystery
to the resumption of mystery
and see the latter as deception;
when one resumes a deception
before the world,
those who became naked as afterthought
and did not participate
in the original drama will feel cold
and cheated.

All this is to say
that to decide to swim naked
in the main stream
ought usually to be a final choice.
One should not go backwards from there;
indeed, it is made nearly impossible
by the ever-judging audience.
They know you too well,
you see,
for any of them to not picture you
naked ever again.

Still, there are those
who do pull it off,
but it takes time and patience
to be among them,
and you must wait
for an entire generation to pass
before you can walk out clothed
as you wish again, out there
among your disowned heirs, the nude
public, in all their skin
and bare finery. 

No matter how wonderfully
you are arrayed,

it feels a little hollow
when you step out that way.

It’s a shuttered charm school
in here: a lot of ghosts learned
in the arts of restraint and poise,
but not much that’s still alive.

All I can taste is smoke
from the butt-end
of a burned heart.
It’s all I can do to stay inside.

If the door I used to come in
is still clear and still leads back
to clean air, I can’t see it.
I should have left a trail.

As it is, I’m stuck here, I guess,
learning to make sense of this;
drinking poison with my pinky raised,
choking on it with my lips sealed.

It’s all I can do to stay inside.
The whole damn place is still alive.
I should have left a trail; better still,
I should have left this sealed.