Growing Up

With the cuffs of her socks
edged in nylon lace
she sits on a lawn and watches trees—

apple trees that shed white blossoms
and sift to the ground
to become a bridge for pill bugs
that journey around a water hydrant
and beneath a rock
whose color changes
whenever she shifts her head—

the bus is taking a long time to arrive

she plucks dandelions
with teased crowns of white hair
that gather between her damp fingers like strings of a harp.

She knows how this works, but forgets to wish.

People are gathered in front of the bus stop.
It’s taking forever.

Report for the Day

how a mouse click

gags in the throat

with teeth on edge

until I float perpendicular

to who I am

As I Watch the Rain

I know truth as I watch the rain
Asking hands to write a release
Papers drawn red in the sky
There for the hills and sun and moon
To shout out before my high noon
Papers drawn red in the sky
Asking hands to write a release
I know truth as I watch the rain

Fool's Gold

Swirl of black cape
east of downtown Oakland
at the edge of Chinatown
in the cool of spring

evening and I'm listening for music
and hearing none, marry into another
family of events, community college students
who hand out gift cards to a younger set

in a basement catacomb
where elementary school kids sit in a darkened room
with their foreheads sheltered by hair
as they study musical notation.

No hip-hop music
at a student center
that is bucketed for closure
with chairs prisoners of a yellow tape.

The next day it's
morning at the Farmer's Market,
red swiss chard, asparagus,
spotted purple orchids.

outreach

I was in the middle of a home coming

one more day before completing a contract

that had buttressed my pathetic fallacy
I was a warbler with feathered wings
when in reality I was staring at my hands again
grasping at fortune and not at the phone,
which I did pick up anyway;  and hearing how the
voice was a treble, sweet in my ear,
I knew right away the caller wanted money,
and sure enough, there it was, the Symphony
firing up its string section,

how to head off the caller at the pass?
take a tip from Bridge players, I thought,
draw from my knowledge of Depression-era film,
Paul Muni sweating on the chain gang in darkened eyebrows,
Grace Kelly wearing silver dollars in "Goldiggers."

instead, hoping to avoid the ten-minute pitch,
my voice stuttering in rippled potato chips
urging outreach not to waste
her perfectly pitched breath
nor strike bow to body without first getting
a cue; I denied being in the classical musical camp
even if I had sent in a coupon, once,
such things are feckless indicators of a momentory weakness,
and not a proven measure of interest at all.
had I actually attended a concert? well, see there!
then I let her have it: come Friday,
I was filing for unemployment

when suddenly she lay down her corporate directive
to sign up another member for season tickets,
she was most sorry I had lost my job
as we spoke of how everything these days
is terrible and then hung up.

I heard a birdie outside, a wren, I think.
Opened my refrigerator door
and looked for dinner.

More Than One Part

This is the part I don’t get:

• Getting a return on execution
• How to be search disabled
• A greeter at WalMart with eyes as black as tadpoles

I don't get how a greeter at WalMart can upset my apple cart for not spending a dime. Accounting in the aisles is so lip gloss. I go back home empty-handed, my hands filled with touching. All is not lost, but why do I use my car remote to get in the front door? I don't know what door I'm going in anymore. I can only think, "If I want to know where I'm going, I need to get there."

Something like:

• Not getting rick-racked on execution
• How to be search enabled
• A greeter at WalMart with eyes as black as tadpoles 

Here’s another part I don’t get:

A Statue of Liberty drumming up business, stopping traffic at every street corner. Dressed in Styrofoam with a green crown strapped to her head. Matching flip-flops. She's waving an ice-cream torch. I lick it and ask, “What social studies book did you come from?” Some answers may be:

• Her ding-dong's in hiding
• She's a woman pressed into perpetuity
• She's the son of a CPA

The real Lady Liberty with her skirts of copper and hands of shelter would strike this impostor with an arch of her eyebrow. But here's the part I really don't get. How can a person lose love and not do a thing to get it back:

• Something about the Law of Inversion?
• Something about the Law of Reversion?
• Something about a greeter at WalMart with eyes as black as tadpoles?

Spring Tide

Sulfur mustard grass,
a chorus line across the shore
brilliance going through me.

I jumped from my car,
tore a bunch by its bare roots,
dipped grass in cold salt water

stinging my nostrils
as waves crowned me
with a splinter of diamonds.

And so it happened.
I stopped worrying about turning
into a neighbor's cul de sac,

Forgot about arriving on time
or if I'd selected a good bottle
for the table.

All that mattered as I huddled
inside the water's tongue
was the taste of thunder.