a cold comin' on

it crept along the hallway looking for a way in
a new party, the other guy was a bit of bore
even this cold got tired of the endless hacking
time to move on
time to move in
where
something/someone new, fresh
challenging
that one, that one will do
no colds for a long time,
no lingering bad taste from some other
nasty bug, nosirree
yessiree, she's the one
for me.

Nettoyer La Cuisine

il fait toujours la nuit et il fallait
que je me reveille et nettoyer la cuisine,
une lettre envoyee il y a des mois,
des mois, des mois
retrouvee dans une tiroir noir, noir comme
ce nuit que je nettoie, cette cuisine apres
je mets mes peu vetements dans ma petite sac
et je pars
je ne regarde pas derriere
c'est noir, c'est fini.

This poem comes from a prompt on Monday pulled from Daniel's French grammar book, and the memory of cleaning my father's kitchen before being thrown out the back door. 

Passing Through A Room

............................................."They passed through several rooms
...............................................filled with odds and ends,

..............................................clothes on hangers but also guns
...............................................stacked in corners"  -

...............................................from Life is Elsewhere, Milan Kundera

I would pass through his room filled with odds and ends

but there is no exit, only a window on the far side

I could float above the floor, my feet buoyed by piles of

old bank statements, mixed boxes of insect repellant and motor oil,

twenty years of T-shirts acquired at a millenia of bike races.

I went in to gather hangers, many migrated there

like birds to a flock,

I pluck them out as a hunter raises his rifle

to harvest a goose traveling south to

a warm, sunny place.

Bye Bye Messenger Bag

You came to me, fluorescent orange bag delivered
by two hands I used to hold when he and I crossed the street
or not, just to hold hands all the time and one day he said
he would marry me
I smiled
again when the bag arrived so many years later
from a man standing tall who doesn't need to hold a hand
to cross the road safely
but the bag
meant so much to me, decorated with personal pins,
filled with a red purse from San Francisco, a green
leather pencil case from Switzerland,
custom electronic boxes, who would need
those; no doubt heaved in a rubbish
bin in some alley,
pictures of my daughter,
pens, pencils, addresses,
so many little parts of my life,
taken away in my now faded orange
messenger bag that has traveled
so many miles and now
cast away like so much
trash by someone who
could care less.

Snow Fall

Snow fall
from the grey clouds
and more yet, more snow
burying sidewalks, our sins,
topping birdfeeders and mailboxes,
the tunnels of white blind me
the shovel leads the way.

Burning down the house

at least oil was not on fire, just paper, the flames
only dancing to inches, not feet
no fire extinguisher required,
no children to rush out of the house
through a smoky living room,
just me, rather sheepishly noting that
once again I can't read front from back,
nor reminding myself that
really
leaving paper on stove burners is
probably not the brightest thing
for someone of my abilities
burnt paper to add to undone dishes,
empy refrigerator and
grumpy dogs.

Working too much

it's a problem
I know,
working too much
but first he comes in,
then she does, with
their issues, interesting ones
and the African violet at the windowsill
perks up her ears and her purple blossoms,
looking at me as if to say, well,
that's interesting, don't you think
and I reply, yes
but I already have
too much work,
my dear flower,
when will you help beyond making more
beautiful purple blossoms,
that doesn't take much intellectual firepower,
does it.