the empty tree

1.  some will call it dead.

the tree, an old birch peeling its bark is empty.

its roots ignore water. its birds are someplace else.

its lifeless form is good enough for the landscape painter

who sets-up from a distance and sees the tree as a meaningful

part of the nature before him. it’s good enough for the poet who

sees "life" in the history of the empty tree same as the Wampanoag

who learned their lessons from stone and the Sun.

at day's end, enlightenment has changed its cooperative attitude

and darkness has set upon the empty tree.

2.  the painter and the poet meet at the diner for coffee and sandwiches.

they sit side-by-side at the counter.

they're told the pastrami is lean.

it's not easy to resist lean pastrami.

as for the empty tree the Wampanoag would say it is waiting for their return.

but both pastrami sandwich eaters at the counter are done with it–– and

well, I guess I am, too.

 foxtrot for poetry

1.

don’t worry.

I know the steps.

I will teach you.

I’m hot to foxtrot

and you’ll be hot, too.

let’s hit the floor

because it’s late and

we haven’t much time.

I've been in love with

goodnight sweetheart

drifting slowly, so romantic! but—

2.

did you know

Robert Browning

penned a foxtrot?

said it was

Andrea Del Sarto!

said it was faultless!

who can argue?

and we'll be faultless, too

with the last dance at hand.

there's the whistle!

follow my lead and

let's go, my love.

 

                    God’s first attempt

Adam was naked

from the lump at his neck

to the ground at his feet.

Adam was panting for a woman

and God took notice.

fearing self abuse by his creation

God nabbed a stick of charcoal

from his bag of tricks

and began sketching a woman

for Adam’s morning delight.

Adam didn’t like it, so God, pissed off,

snapped his rib and fashioned another

sketch he named at a later time.

now it came to pass that God's

original sketch was found

in a shipping trunk in the mid-west

and scheduled to be auctioned

as quickly as possible.

I showed-up wanting to prove

the existence of the mid-west

and instead won the sketch with a bid

of $250.00 American,

a healthy sum in 1968.

(sketch provided by: "ACME Sketch Co. Inc".)

 

                    Cantina?

the new coffee

joint opened last week

called “the Cantina”.

that was of interest

to me so I travelled

west to Main then south

to Plain Street

to get to “the Cantina”.

inside it looked

like every other

coffee spot

I’d ever known

absent “Carmella’s diner”

which has been seared

to my fascination

for some 65 years.

"the Cantina” come to find out

was owned and operated

by one Fergal Leary

born of Irish parentage

who had a place on

Oak Grove Avenue

for all of Fergal's young life.

I held my disappointment

in check and ordered coffee

at the counter, drank it, got a grilled

cheese with tomato on rye to travel,

paid the tab, left a sizable

but disgruntled tip and beat it back

from whence I came.

vignette? Vignette.

                    in response to an emergency

there’s a medical situation going on street-side

5 stories below the balcony and emergency vehicles

are fast approaching from the south.

inside, I turn-down the volume of Krzysztof Penderecki’s

“Threnody to the Victims of Hiroshima” out of respect

then spoon 9-lives "chicken and liver feast" in a shallow dish

for the easily distracted cat giving the counter a pine-scented

wet-wipe due to the acrid scent left behind from the canned

chicken and liver feast.

in the elevator it’s a slow, lonesome ride down to the lobby.

it seems that I'm well prepared to deal with emergencies.

 

                   good humor

the ice cream truck

has a new jingle.

I hear it from the balcony.

this is throwing me off

my established equilibrium.

not that it’s a bad jingle.

It does its job by alerting

the kids to pester their parents

into enough money

to get out there and nab

the treat of the day.

not one kid seems bothered

by the new jingle.

all they know is the dripping

cones of chocolate and

the sunbursts of creamsicles

and the strawberry, vanilla,

raspberry swirl in a paper cup

with a little wood spoon sticking

out of it like the tongue Pinocchio

probably had hidden in his mouth.

the new jingle will take some

getting used to and I’m sure

I’ll get used to it in time,–– but

I think I’m going to miss a lot after I croak.

will Pluto dress more acceptably to become included?

will the panoramic windshield make its comeback?

will future ice cream trucks have a propeller on top?

and will their jingles play the oldies?

                exploring the 5th grade history of penmanship

vignette

the cursive. step back. see me.

face so close to the page

I can sense the agony of its pulp,

fingertips at the silvery nib.

take a long look at the effort

to do the assignment;

to write a letter to someone in ink;

to anyone, to make someone

out of nobody if privacy's an issue.

there's a prescription for doing it correctly

in how to start how to proceed and how to end.

but I’m left-handed. that’s two strikes

against me in the crowded 5th grade field.

look how the wet ink smudges below the hand

of what’s already been accomplished.

mark's "D for neatness".

complain to who or what but the right-handed system of things.

—— the big finish:

except for the girls

I didn't like the 5th grade

except for the girls.