The Angel Tree
Angels
plucked from the
angel tree,
blossoms
of sweetest belief.
To grow unchecked,
unchanged.
As no man
should ever want
to be.
That is the pull,
from stem to seed.
Those angels,
and that tree.
Poem for a Woman
Selling Poppies Outside the Liquor Store
There is a horrible
debilitating sadness to this one.
With straight blond
shards of hair protruding out from under
a red striped touque
with saggy pom-pom to one side.
Behind black
sunglasses, in one of those black bubble jackets
that make you look as
though you should be selling tires
like the Michelin
Man. I guess she wants to stay warm,
and this is my poem
for a woman selling poppies outside
the liquor
store. She looks sad to me, like she has
never experienced
a single orgasm in
her life. But she is doing the good
work, wants you
to remember those
that have fallen in battle. Most
everyone ignores her
even though she
stands right out front the entrance. A
few of the older
generation drop a
couple coins into the box around her neck and take a poppy.
Maybe they want to
remember someone else’s life, as long as they can
forget their
own. Anyone who is at the liquor store
at twenty past ten in the
morning is definitely
there to forget. But they take a poppy
and pin it on their
vest. Thank our silent warrior for braving the cold
with a cursory nod.
Not a single
leg-jerker in her 50-some years of shagging, just think about that!
I feel bad for this
woman, as though she has
faked a million moon
landings.
Orange
Every time
I peel an orange,
I think of the meth heads
down at the end of the street
pulling apart their television.
Disassembling all the electronics
in the house at all hours
and leaving them in
frantic piles.
And the old guy who lives next door,
can hear them digging through
the shared wall.
He's trying to sell his place
and get the hell out of there.
But no takers yet.
Seems nobody is buying homes
and a lot of people are buying
drugs.
I Kick My Heels in a Judy Garland Summer
I promise the sidewalk
that ants are a thing of the past,
I kick my heels in a Judy Garland Summer,
leap for branches that scream at tumbling
pole vaulters,
tickle the curb with a child's fresh chalk.
And upon the wind, a passing insistence,
like that whoosh of busy elevators,
like a man of tiny swivel chair joys,
how have I got inside?
Cake Walk
I passed him this morning,
walking up Princess
Street.
An older gentleman
in a yellow checkered sweater.
Carrying a cake
from that expensive bakery
on the corner
that always smelled of
fresh bread.
Two hands under that spotless
white box that folded so
neatly at the sides.
Careful not to drop the thing,
as though he were working bomb
disposal for the city.
Ginger as he went.
A cake for his wife's birthday, perhaps.
Or for a child or a friend's
anniversary.
Some milestone
that seemed to carry great importance,
you could see it on the
gentleman's face.
That steadied way he tried
to keep the box
from shaking
I was late for work,
lingering blood blisters across
both heels.
Watching the meter maid plaster
fresh tickets over the windshields
of naughty cars.
As a parking lot full of gulls
fought over part of an old French fry
like it was the holy grail.
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