Waiting at the old station
for bus, train, or shuttle;
no longer sure which one. 

Voice in the air, gender
and age uncertain:
“You missed the early ride

but the late one’s still on schedule.”
I’m sixty-three and have little time
to wait, I suspect, for that ride.

I have been here before
and I’ve always left the station
under my own power before riding.

Maybe not this time. Maybe 
I’ll take whatever comes for me
with a smile.  Right now, though,

I’m a mess. I’ve got one foot
toward the road away, one 
toward the road back. 

Choice is what’s left,
all that’s left. I hear my ride. 
It’s time.  

Small gang
of starlings
chittering out there.

Cat loafed
and listening
in here. 

She’s not moving
but head’s up. I can tell
she is on standby. For what?

In her life no bird
has ever flown in here
and she does not

go outside. Every now 
and then she charges
when one lands

on the feeder closest to 
the window and she
is foiled again. 

I don’t know 
what the starlings think
about her but they

keep coming
near the window
she keeps charging.

The cat’s now pretending
to sleep. I don’t think
the birds are pretending

to anything but I
don’t know,
of course.

Since I’m up with them
as always, I am pretending 
to be at peace with not-knowing.

Whether for hope or habit,
game or hunger, instinct  
or amusement, we all do this

every morning
we can. It’s what we do.
It’s all we do. 

An old man passes by
in the supermarket
with his mouth open
neither smile nor frown
breathing not that hard
but hard enough to notice

Right behind him
a child follows her young father
adoring him and asking
for grilled cheese when they get home

He tells her he’ll do it
They’ll do it the right way
where he puts the butter on the bread
and puts it in the oven
It takes longer but
it’s the best

She says Daddy I know that
Everyone knows that 

The little girl is serious
Her dad is just too busy 
to acknowledge 
That old man’s oblivious
All I have to add
is my unnoticed smile
as I remember I’m going to die someday
and toss bread and cheese into my cart
It’s not going to happen
before I find out
if the dad and his daughter
are telling the truth
Don’t want to end up
like that old man
never having a chance 
to be part of everyone 
before that happens

It doesn’t question
its own existence,
so far as we know. 
Beyond that 
it seems to be
devoid of concern
for its own meaning.
It is simple
in the best way
possible. Could I learn 
a thing or two here?
I don’t know if I could.
I’d have to sort
out and toss so much
head fluff,
then learn
base skills like
how to eat more
intensely, to climb
without fear of falling;
to spring away
from danger
when needed
in self-preservation. 
I don’t know if I could,
or should. A question 
for a Saturday morning
during a respite, a lull
in a storm. 

inside your head is your egg
where you hold the full life
you will live after you crack

at the moment you are folded
upon your incipient self in there
it can only be seen in dark close up

you won’t know what’s in there
until the shell breaks
and you flop out in your head

less dark and cramped than before
all will feel possible then
light and shadow tumbling 

inside your egg is a head
you wish you had cracked open
when you were younger

though the cracking
would have defined
agony

it would have
defined joy 
as well

Red-eyed, black-shod,
stinking like
an unclean kitchen hood.

Comes slinking up
the side road, shouting
stuff about Jesus.

He knows Jesus personally
and Jesus would dig deep for him
into his pockets except

that robe don’t got pockets.
He’s got disciples to carry
his stuff.

Ask a disciple
how it works. Any disciple 
knows what to do.

He’s got that West Side Swagger.
He’s got that Sunshine Energy.
He’s got that late night last night stagger.

He’s got that strapped for cash
but feeling all right air of a man
who knows dead doesn’t last long

even if it takes him mid-sentence.
He’s out here every day.
You ever see him dead?

He’s got that downtown rhythm.
He’s got that boondocks 
knows-enough-to-get-by stare.

He says he looks
just like his dad.
He’d show you a picture

but he doesn’t have it
on him right now. 
He doesn’t trust himself

to carry it.  
It’s back
at the spot. 

Asks you for a quarter.
Says you are blessed
when you hand it over.

He isn’t going anywhere.
Even if he dies tomorrow
he’ll be back soon enough. 

not an original bone
in here
not an original thought
in here

my face is generic

should
get out of myself
look around 
and see how much out there
is not me

the door 
is sealed
from outside

even this
is generic

all I can muster
is a hello
that is more generic
than everything else

I took a weed-whacker
out to the garden and cut it
all down. It was time:

well before harvest, well before
even blooming, in fact not long
into growing. It was time.

I stood there after and inhaled
the wet green scent of what I had done
and felt like a horseman 

from one of the old tales, surveying
the battlefield aftermath. I felt 
that I was seeing farther now

and I turned back to the house itself
and took a pipe to the windows.
It was time: I broke stubborn shards

from the frames with my bare hands
though they were too torn to grip right.
It was time: I licked blood

from myself until I felt noble
again. It was time:
having spent years blunted

by history and weak knees,
by my own diluted story, it was time
to regain the place I deserved;

though it was a ruin
to all who saw it
it was home at last — and then I woke

to the alarm sounding softly
from the bedside. It was time.
Sat up in bed in the aftermath of the dream

clenching and relaxing my hands,
looking around at too-familiar ruin.
It’s time, I told myself. It’s time. 

There’s a stone
not far from here
balanced on another stone
in a field that’s been used 
for cow pasture
on a dairy farm for 
seven generations.
The stone has been there
since the last glacier
retreated and left it perched there
dozens of generations before that.

When I was a boy
I’d sneak up into that pasture
when I thought no one was looking
and try to push that rock over
though it hasn’t budged, ever.
It’s still there. I’m still here.
The cows are still there grazing
around the rocks. There are
other stones in that pasture too
but there’s only one
I could draw for you
from memory if I could draw.

That memory is dozens of generations old.
Here is the proof, right here
on this paper. I didn’t bother
with the temporary cows,
the minor stones, the grass.
You could go there now
and find it right away by sight
just using this sketch, I swear —

and once there you would talk (as you do now)
of developing the pasture
and the land around that pasture
for luxury homes and lovely roads 
as if moving the standing stone
was no more that a bulldozer’s illusion of right use
and all the whispers of the kids who’ve put 
a shoulder to it without moving it 
hadn’t left it unmoved
for dozens of generations — 
as if your desire and greed could touch it
when they couldn’t;
as if the land doesn’t know already
that you are nothing,
really,
not when you have to look
across all those years to see you.
Ask any of the Natives standing behind you.
The stone will be there even if you move it.

He tells me I have a voice 
smooth as vegan honey
but I think
he’s wrong

I hear meat 
in there as well
Something I killed
and consumed long ago

Bones I crushed 
between my teeth
Hard fragments coursing
into my core

Before he turns away
I consider my options
and choose silence
over questioning

his perception directly 
My voice holds
secrets in the shape 
of a blood pool

and it might
be best
to keep it 
that way