Where the Telephone was, or how I decided to go to MIT

It was possible to be almost hidden behind the door to the stairs,
to lean oneself against a wall painted aqua, or one painted brown
clashing with each other, like we all did back then
except voices creep around door frames to ears not meant to hear,
where was privacy in those days except where it should not be.

huh?

I didn't mean that, no, actually
I did mean that, sort of,
well, I captured that tiny part but not the
bigger meaning, it was lost in some sort of,
sort of, disconnected rant that probably came across.
wrong.
I meant that part, I know it's confusing
even me and I know what I meant, at least,
I thought I did when I wrote it at the time
late at night over a cold cup of decaf,
knowing coffee should be drunk hot,
fully caffeinated early in the day
when the mind is clear, the right words
will follow; you will understand me
completely.

Gardening

be sure and plant something soft and cool
under a bush so I can lie in the shade
smelling the aroma of thyme and lavender
while
you work in the hot sun, sweat beading on your forehead
take a tip from me and rest in the shade
enjoying the flowers that grow without
any human intervention.

leaving the house

we walk out the front door and don't stop to listen
as we stroll down the street, a little black dog has settled
into her bed silently then snoring lightly, her legs
twitching as she chases rabbits and nips at puppies
that venture too close.

MandMs

littleM and biggerM went to the podium to speak
in little voice and bigger voice
littleM from a little piece of paper and
biggerM from a bigger piece of paper
littleM went back to her little seat and
biggerM went back to her little seat
but she still fit, her outer thigh pressing
against littleM's thigh and my thigh
where I went to sit after I went to the
podium to speak without a piece of paper
but we won anyway.

moving on past

moving on past
words that don't say it all
about love, about loss, about never losing
the warmth of touch from the beginning
that will go to the end until
the flesh is cold to the touch
your fingertips gently
closing eyelids across
unseeing eyes.

watching parakeets

blue and white
climbing up the small wooden ladder, she reaches for the millet on a string.
i make a note of it that she likes that millet on a string
for when I come back to find her,
and that one who pushes the brightly colored plastic chain
across the grate, as devoted as Sysyphus
to his task,
now that's a good name for a boy.