Door to Door
Let these people
not be home
let the flyers
blow away quietly
stick to the
chain link fences
let me not walk up
these concrete steps,
one more time
stand on this torn
green outdoor rug
read the Persuasion Script
promise life
will get better
perhaps not now
perhaps in some
other person’s lifetime
_______________________________________________
Randomness
Kent State, 1970
She slid from her bed on the morning of May 4,
chose the bright red blouse for the occasion
of the day of her death. Sometimes I wonder
how my death will come, specifically the like,
the what, the how. Will it be after dinner when I rise
from the table, grab the hot wire of an infarct
across my chest, or after the tenth visit
to the cancer clinic where the vile brew delivered
through the pic-line turns my skin yellow, then blue,
then white. But getting back to her as she slammed
the screen door, smelled the newly cut grass,
walked looking up at the pillowed clouds
and the man pointing the gun four hundred feet away
saw something extraordinary through his sight.
A dazzling red and gold flash moving in the parking lot.
A small sun come to the tarred surface.
I rise from my bed and offer to the gods of randomness
maybe, perhaps, if: life as hypothetical.
_______________________________________________
Say
The
slant light of winter
through tall windows
where music plays.
We make bird-houses,
read stories, eat fruit.
Their small eyes stare up
into my safe face, not a face
attached to smacking hands.
Hands that would make you want
to take your clothes off,
rub grease in your hair,
jump out the window.
I sit across from each child,
say look at me - this is a red apple,
say apple say water this is water
Say I will remember you.