an afternoon by the East River

"the water's been clean
lately, surprisingly so."
he's in it, knee-deep.

i watch from a safe
distance; squinting, skeptical.
his feet plunge into

muddy sand, making
sucking sounds each time he lifts
them, breaking the seal.

a boat's wake rushes
ashore and my sissy dog
skuttles away quick.

i manage to pick my
feet up (onto my rock-seat)
just in time, thank god.

"what just floated by ?"
"hm. a condom or dead fish ?"
"don't give it much thought."

we share nervous laughs
as i brush myself off and
slip my shoes back on.

belly.

no recollection
of yesterdays lunch save for
the pile of bacon.

precision vs. accuracy

funny that while we
have no way of knowing when
it is precisely

12 noon (on-the-nose !)
a stopped watch will always be
correct twice a day.

cadence

bjork's on NPR
talkin bout weird shit and stuff;
that fucking siren.

my friend, the florist

her eyes are steel blue,
not robin's egg, baby, or
Carolina blue

but frosty and crisp,
like a gin martini
just made and resting.

she carries with her
a thick musk of verbena,
moss, and lavender,

so that long after
our talks of men, dogs, food, wine,
sex, sins & sinners

her scent clings to me,
a delayed good-bye embrace,
so tender and sweet.

sulking.

when you're a teacher
the month of august feels like
sunday -- quick, dreadful.