Fog on the railroad track,
black brick, buds
bursting there, and here
the broken frontwheel just near
the holly and the red piece
of plastic left for color, syringes
and a rubber glove: light blue,
thumb missing, between blades
of grass newly green. So much
to celebrate – cigarette butts
and daffodils arranged
just so, the gray unquenchable
river tide, embedded pebbles,
April ! the oil-slick sand
with its silver Heineken cans.
First published in The Stand, 2013, Issue 199
Not the Last Chapter
I’m up all night,
like a bottled bug.
London is hardest.
The broken escalators
we used to mock
can bring it on.
The Twenty Four is stalled
opposite the curry house.
The driver smokes one outside,
passengers look on.
Attachment is suffering.
pedestals are crammed
with trash. Planks jut
into the river where I took
the call. The bridge,
the brink, the wall.
Cats don’t get insomnia.
We can learn from that.
First Published in Under the Radar, 2013, Issue 12
I Nearly Took the Twenty Four Today
Remember, once it just stopped,
the driver got out and walked off.
Remember, on the left side of Lupus
a pedestrian might get hit by an empty beer can.
Remember the mould, the leak, the water bills,
the boiler. I thought we were unhappy then.
Remember gooseberry pickles, like eyeballs
in a jar, you said they help a person relax.
Remember when it snowed for three days and
I did not have to go to the airport.
First Published in The Stand, 2013, Issue 199