Battersea

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,

trapped

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.

At Southbank

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