My Father
My father was a whistler and a penny
lobber. He had no use for the lowest
denomination of hard money, so handing
pennies to him for change was followed
by a quick coin toss to the sidewalk.
Lawyer Poets, Poems, Tributes
What Is Your Idle Job?
—question (with typo) in a mass email’s subject line I wait for lunchtime at my desk, spinning like a boy
Anniversary
I was crying in front of the Quick Trip
because I was out of cigarettes
and left my wallet at home and
it was my anniversary and so it was
Saving For Sleep
Night’s pitch-rolled on a deck of blight,
and hands, they call, all hands aboard.
Here’s the rigging of a dream—
Cooking Frutti Di Mare On This Early Evening Before the Night Falls On Kentucky Hillsides
Today, as the locals love to say,
is so cold the wolves ate the sheep for the wool.
I open the bag.
How to Make Amends
He was hungry, so he ate the couch, the one with the pull-out bed. Of course, when the wife came home, she was disgusted.