Wayfare
I spent most of a day
putting the crib that came
in 48 parts together, tightening
every screw just enough
Audio
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.
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.
We Don’t Call It a Riot
That summer was an oven on self-clean—
beyond hot. The cops raided clubs for weeks.
Huddled, frightened men and men and women
and women and human and human held
at the end of a nightstick in contempt,
being held in the arms of a lover
My 88-Year-Old Mother-in-Law Decides to Make New Year’s Resolutions
and I want to say, oh, Rose, why? but there’s no way to pass the prime
rib and pretend the words You’ll be dead soon enough aren’t standing
behind her, waiting to be said.
Picnic
Ghazals have always struck me as a literary picnic—a checkerboard blanket brimming with many different dishes composed of unique couplets. This modified, collaborative ghazal, with its ‘No-Thing-ness’ whimsicality served up alongside more serious stanzas, unpacks a memorable conversation for us all under the summer afternoon sun.