The Neighborhood Swamp: Winter

The swamp on the corner
wedged between the O’Brian’s and
Mrs. Willowby’s house slumbered
under deep snow, the edges dirtied
by car exhaust, I don’t dare go there
for fear of falling into ice-covered
crevasses, or of being pierced by
icicles hurtling towards earth.

Searching for C.

the headlights of the car
illuminated Rue des Bavards
through a sheet of rain,
a boulevard like so many others.
he leaned forward anxiously,
his forehead almost touching
the cold windshield as he searched
for her car, the one he looked for every
night, sometime before dawn, to see
where she slept, no matter where,
in anyone’s arms, no matter
whose, as long as he knew
she was there safe, so many
rainy nights when she
was not at home in her
small twin
bed.

The Problem with Rhymes in Poetry

rhymes drive poems into a ditch;
the remaining words
spinning like the wheels of a car
that has rolled as it careened off
the highway, its erstwhile occupants
trapped inside, unable to speak.

Checklist

I have to write one line before S.
will let me get up to eat another cookie.
(I write two lines and realize I can write
the rest of a poem before eating more cookies.)
I have to package the remaining cookies
in plastic bags, locked plastic bags, to
send to K., who is the small criminal who
printed out the recipe to these cookies when
she last visited.
I left two cookies at M&M’s house earlier
today and I know from past experience that
M1 meant to only eat a bite but ate all of
her cookie and maybe all of M2’s cookie.
I have to file my taxes, finish reading the
article about the Brooklyn Poet Laureate
who competed against 22 other poets for
the position and who writes poems on scraps
of paper, poems that get published in the
New York Times.
I must find scraps of paper.

If the Sidewalks Were Shoveled

If the sidewalks are shoveled,
we can walk barefoot without
getting our feet wet, bundled in
our warm winter jackets and
new gloves; we can walk
away from the dirty dishes
in the sink towards a warm
café and drink double espressos
and read the latest New York Times.
The sidewalks are never shoveled
except in front of our house,
When it snows, there is never
a pathway to the west or to
the east and we sit inside and drink
hot tea and bake cookies until
the sun comes out again and
melts away the snow.

Snow on Flowers

falling asleep in spring to
the aroma of warm dirt
and flowers coaxed from
the earth by the sun.
waking, the flowers will be covered
in a blanket of sparkling snow,
the air will be crisp, odorless,
sterile, yet
beautiful.

Green Fashion

if i were to construct
a couple with all the green
i saw today, she would be wearing
a tiara dangling green tinsel stars,
a lime green cashmere sweater, low cut so
as to reveal the shamrock tattoo on her left breast.
her green stiletto heels click against the
cement sidewalk, highlighting her green
fishnet stockings terminating at the hem
of her green and white striped miniskirt.
her companion, a middle aged gentleman,
escorts her into the restaurant sporting
a green Mohawk, so freshly cut as to
smell almost like a newly cut grass,
wearing a polka dotted bow tie
and a striped green and white shirt.
no one has shoes as cool as mine.