Thursday, May 31, 2007

The Old Teacher

The Old Teacher

She smelled of sour plums and pressed flowers;
sweat beads form like dew on her forehead;
with a white laced hanky, she would wipe them
off every time before they start to roll;
she walked along the rows of seated children,
her eyes scanning the horizon of the mischievous
heads bowing over their opened texts as they read.

Twenty years later, she’s sitting in a train;
her black hair is now a tangle of gray curls;
it’s still the same eyes, it’s still the same
pit bull jaws, still the same rosewater
perfume; one wonders if her knobby hands
are still dangerous with a wooden ruler.

Moving In

Moving In

Apple-green tiles and
vanilla cream walls;
a coat of white wash
was all we could afford;

There’s a wrinkled brown hide
(what he calls a “sofa”)
and a white marble slab
(“coffee table”)
on rust-eaten legs
in the living room;

there’s a teakwood carcass
(“dining table”)
painted grizzly brown
and polished to shine
blocking half the way
to the master bedroom.

And the matching chairs?
Don’t ask.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

No. 5 Cairnhill Road

No. 5 Cairnhill Road


It’s not even their house, it’s just
“temporary”; Father calls it home;
Mother disagrees by not nodding;
Child just wants to take her toys
out of the box and play house.

When a cloud passes in front of
the sun and there’s a smell of a wet
storm in the breeze; when all is dim
in shadow for a while, Child pauses,
suddenly realizes: she’s all by herself