He Stands

he stands 
on the corner
of the city street,
smack dab in the midst 
of the Monday morning 
commuter rush

cowboy hat,
mini lasso and American flag

campaign signs 
affixed to his American 
made car, nailed to a wooden
cross

he’s making 
a grassroots run for
President, espousing the
word of God as if
he’s the messenger
sent to heal

I stand blurry eyed
at the lights, waiting to 
cross, knowing coffee is 
just a red light away

avoiding eye contact, 
I know it’s only a matter 
of time before he decides
I’m a captive audience

he says, “This is a day
the Lord has wrought. Go forth
and greet it with gladness.”

“Maybe once I wake up.”

the light turns red 
and off I go

he’ll be there
again tomorrow

Canadian Geese

Canadian geese
wreaking havoc in the fields;
soon to depart south.

Reflection of the Son

They tell me
you were fast,
and most often, 
you were kind,

and you cared 
an awful lot about 
all the things that 
I know I would 
have loved.

You were almost
gone before I got to
the place where 
I'd remember, and
now the things that 
I remember are the things
I'd rather forget.

Sometimes 
I catch a glimmer
of what you must have 
really been like, and it
quickly passes but I know
that I would like to 
have known you,

if only for a while.

Nearly Fifteen

Fourteen
nearly fifteen

and he says he has a life.

I just can't expect 
that he has time to do 
all the things 
I would like him
to do.

In comparison 
to me, the least busy one – 
working two jobs and 
involved in countless things;
doing it so long, though,
that it's just second nature.

Remember all those
firsts when you were young - 
not just love, or driving
by yourself or being with the person
you coveted for so long.

The first time you heard
a blues standard and understood
exactly what it meant,
or connected the name of a restaurant
with a classic tale from long ago.

You thought you were the only one
to suddenly connect the dots,
the very first one to figure it all out.

You knew everything -
the universe was unfolding
right before your eyes.

You were busy;
you were sought after.
The world couldn't possibly
expect any more than you were
already giving, and yet someone
was still harping on you to pick
up your dirty socks and empty
the trash.

Just a Taste

He says that she is
an acquired taste; how much
taste has he acquired?

Baggage

He keeps
thinking he’ll feel
differently if only he
had just a little more
time except for every
two steps forward,
he finds he is
at least a half
dozen still behind.

She’s comfortable
where she’s heading
and he hasn’t even yet
read the map.
She’s been playing
it on instincts adjusting
altitude when it
doesn’t feel right.
He’s not one to
venture into uncharted
territories or travel
just based on gut.

The travelogue is
splintered with the
destination unknown.
She’s continuing forward
while he wonders if
their journey has
reached its end.

Point B

He wanders,
his back a half crouch,
a misshapen Groucho Marx,
yet no comedy afoot. 

His crown balding
above dull catatonic eyes;
a twisted mouth betrays
little in its waxen domain.

His wardrobe 
ill-fitting and stained;
his journey unfocused
regardless of his intent.

Point A seldom leads to Point B.

They all know him
at the neighborhood stores.
They've chased him 
out of the downtown bars.

He's broken bread 
and broken bones throughout
the neighborhood they call home,
and they see him wander about each day,
confused, behaving erratically
not realizing it wasn't always
this way and that once upon a time,
he lived with his children and 
worked full time and had a life 
he truly loved and a wife that loved 
him so and in what felt like a flash,
it was taken away and no matter what 
anyone did, it couldn't change a thing.

It wouldn't change a thing.

He once ran
twenty or more miles each day,
now he shuffles walker in hand,
too often he falls or 
sees people where they are not
and knows emergency personnel 
far too well.

He tells lies
and says that he's safe.
He steals things
and says he did not. 

All dignity is far flung, removed;
his options sliver with each day.
He's slipping, slipping, stubbornly
insistent that his sky is still blue,
even as he is further damned 
by its gray.

But I know him.
I know who he was;
what he did and 
what mattered
to him. 

Point A will never lead to Point B again. 

I just want 
a safe home for him.