Pandemonium in the living room

living room as a bike parlor
where you can sidle up next to
a range of possible partners,
squeeze the tires for firmness,
check out the seat and the curve
of the handlbars and see whether
you can ride together.
it’s pandemonium in the living
room where you can shop for
bedroom sheets, expresso machines,
men’s clothing, old suitcases,
left over receipts from travels around
the world, the pandemonium of
human movement, life,
adventure.

eating watermelon

on a fork

in a truck,

on the street,

in slices,
on wedges,
by yourself,
with a friend,
so quickly
gone

Air Conditioning

in the morning she gets up,
searching for the sleeveless
shift he gave her before he left;
it’s so hot in her small apartment
even at 5 a.m. as she gets ready
for work, then remembering to search for
her sweater to wear at work,
where she will stand for the next
eight hours scanning groceries,
her frozen smile matching
the chill of the air conditioned
air.

Writers Block II

being unable to write,
they made French baguettes,
regardless of the wrong flour, the wrong
oven, the wrong weather, the first
rising not quite enough,
the dough a little too flat,
a little overcooked
the bread tasted
better than their
poetry.

Writers Block

across from her was a writer
who wasn’t writing either, engrossed
in the New York Times, and perhaps
on the other side of the country,
other writers were not writing either,
instead reviewing campaign plans
or reading cookbooks as these two
women were doing tonight
under the dome light above
the dinette where life always
takes place.

Bread and Jam; Baguettes and Confiture

the American version this morning didn’t taste as good
as the French version did yesterday in Paris even if
baguette is the French word for bread.
in Paris, the sun splattered across the row of
café chairs lined up facing the street,
back home, the goldfish are begging to be fed,
as usual; I need to get back to work,
the scale claims that French patisseries and wine have calories.
the tomato plant has tripled in size, Daisy is happy
to see me, it’s good to be home even if my bread is not
a French baguette served at a Paris café .

prompt: cold feet

from the bridge
I see them,  lovers perched on a bench
in the middle of the stream,
surrounded by rushing water
swirling around solid forged iron legs,
such an unexpected barrier in such
late spring.
their feet dangle in the stream,
swaying in the current;  surely
they suffer from cold
feet.

Basel

trams
rumbling,
the Rhine below
ferries strung on wires
dancing in currents,
gardens hidden
inside stone walls
fragrant scent of
roses

Black Velvet Dress

She was dressed in black velvet,
a cloth where light never emerges,
each internal reflection absorbed deeper
into each fiber, disappearing finally
into the soul of the small body
hidden beneath the folds.

The Waiter

his mother comes from Morocco
her gauzy floral robes swirling about her
in dark desert breezes; his father a French
aristocrat having fallen in love one
dark night over sweet mint teas,
the scent of hibisicus flowers drifting
in on breezes which remind him of
the hot breath of previous lovers.
he stands erect before us holding
lemon tarts and tawny port, sweetening
the darkness of night, of
celebrations.

A Night Scene: Sitting at the Dinette

the fish have gone to bed long ago,
a trio of fluorescent bulbs glare
down at me sitting at the pink
formica dinette planning a trip
away from these demanding fish,
dirty dishes and bad entertainment.

Morning clouds

it's too beautiful to sleep, the clouds linger
over my bed, pushing aside dream
remnants of the last night where fish
rode on horses and maidens flew through
the air wielding cellos.
how sad to give up such dreaming,
how content to gaze at the clouds.

I stayed up late for this?

at midnight
hours after the planned bedtime
we’re up, wondering how the
hours could have flown by,
how we could have so willingly
spent precious hours this way
only to sit at the dinette
in the delirium talking
of men who keep bees
and speak deep thoughts
or of Wil with one “L”
or of polenta scented with lemons
and so, the night comes to
an end,
thank goodness.

Cereal

I hear a mouse stirring in the cabinet

behind a box of half eaten Kashi 7, the cereal
that no one likes except the young woman
who only comes to visit occasionally these days.
The box stands as a sentinel marking
time until she comes back again to pour
those crunchy nuggets into a bowl,
slice some bananas on top and cover
in fresh cold milk before shuffling
over to the dinette to do some casual
climate modeling while eating breakfast.
The mouse is the only one to object to
the thief in his cabinet.

Banished

to be banished to the cellar
after years of sunshine,
what sadness comes upon her
hearing the scratching of claws
on old wooden floors above her
while she smells the sour smell
of slightly soggy cardboard
below her prison
for the night,
only the night,
my sweet
rabbit.