have i told you lately ?

stepping out of a

taxi cab, from synthetic

frosty air into

thick humidity --

rich, oppressive, abusive -- 

I love you, New York.

dogs have a different god

bugs hang in the mist

spider webs heave with the breeze

and the light shines green;

we are in her church

walking down the aisle, crushing

gravel with our feet

he sleeps on my Zeppelin shirt

watch him curl his tail

and then watch someone tickle

only the black keys

all sharps, all pointy

my chain-link boy, my shadow

stay here a bit more.

summertime nap

her sweat has congealed
into the most delicious
aspic -- sweet, salty,

somehow buttery --
matting her straight hair into
wheaten finger waves

the truth about marriage

we may not be a
pair of great philosophers
but that don't stop us

from rehashing and
debating our fights like they're
Wittgenstein's poker.

a curbside conversation regarding real estate with my sensei

"my dear, now's the time."

his dog nods in agreement
and mine looks at me

like they're both really
onto something.  the train is
pounding above us

and my head and heart
along with it.  he's talking
about decisions

and of course mistakes.
is he standing too close to
the road ? or am i ?

Just a conversation

"So, how old is your

daughter again ?  All around

the neighborhood I'm

seeing big people 

with their little people." She

cups her hands around

some invisible

small thing.  "They stand so straight and

tall.  They walk so well.

It's such a lovely

little image.  From a distance."

Fran has no children.

whoa.

"imagine all the
people on Earth doing what
we're doing right now."

i'm sixteen and want
to sound deep and romantic
while we break for air.

"i stopped believing
that when i was 6," he says.
"i knew no one else

was booby trapping
their sister's Barbie Dream House
the same way i was."

when it rains

the rain advanced from

pitter patter to pounding

and hiding from it

became the only

option. beneath the awning

we stood shivering,

waiting for the clouds

to part, and the skies to make

nice.  they never did.

every night

to not sleep in fear;
to not dream of horrors like
electrocution,

my teeth crumbling out,
or my dog without eyelids.
to wake up rested.

meow meow (or, a 200 $ trip to the vet)

thank you, dear lady,
for the small token you left
for us yesterday.

this gift, this treasure,
this perfect specimen is
truly a marvel,

and rinsing the blood
varnish off of it first was
certainly worth it.

PSA

I did it!  30 poems in 30 days (well, close enough) for Poetry Month -- all about our daughter.  A snapshot of sorts.  Thanks to everyone who read and encouraged, especially my husband and sister.  It feels good to be back in the saddle.  

yesterday, approximately 4:10 PM

a sandy snail has
taken up residence in
the curve of her lip,

the delicate trough
made by an angel's finger
moments before birth.

she hasn't noticed.
her concern lies solely with
the playground's bounty:

a collection of
broken toys, sticks, and pebbles,
so full of promise

that she hasn't time
for neatness, this feral child,
this urchin of mine.