Sunday, May 17, 2009


Thunder rumbled this morning,
rain tap dancing on the black-tar
streets below. I was going to
mop the floor,
do some laundry,
run out the door, get some groceries --
but there was no sunrise;

so much for a day at the beach,
someone must be sighing.

Does it make it a better day
for doing housework?

Grumbling thunder, rain tap
tapping against the windows.

I don't think so.

Saturday, May 16, 2009



In the office pantry, we watch
from 13 floors up, and curse
at the bloated clouds: fat
gray rams tramping on the edge
of the blue horizon, waiting
for us to leave the office.


The rain smacks down, warm
like globs of spit; the wind
steers them sideways to get
at us under our umbrellas;
shoes land in unexpected puddles,
pickling feet in sweat and slush.


Storm drains cough and sputter; water
winds through constipated traffic;
flower brushes, tropic palms,
young saplings fall over
and drown; and the rain drops
dance and skips on their floating limps.

Friday, May 8, 2009


I broke it.

But I wish someone else did --
It's got to be that guy
who used it before me.

Quick! get the superglue
or some sticky tape!
Maybe I can fix the damn thing
before it's found out.

Too late!
A passing witness sees
the two pieces,
"what happened to this?"

Lips flap like a tent
giving way to wind;
words sputter out:
excuses --
useless --
sentences can't come
together, make sense,
fast enough.

I'm caught.
It was me.

I broke it.