Pumping It

the men at the gym pump it,
swinging the big weights, grunting,
sweating, rocking to their headphones,
an occasional nod between sets.
they are the big boys, Olympic weights
crashing onto specially prepared
flooring, thuds echoing through the gym,
he prances a bit after each lift,
we watch in between sets of 5x2,
5 pound hand weights, a delicate
sweat across our brows, we're
pumping it, believe me.

Black

black notes fill the page
matching my mood, the metronome
methodically driving me to madness
in counting each note, jumping
octaves for an A, a D, an F, that
final grade tonight on this piece,
I stop playing and only count
to catch you on the right beat
a few bars later.

Looper

better take the chance
to make a life in thirty years
it will be gone so quickly,
what if it is ten, or five, or two
or a few days, what would you
do differently but hug her a bit longer
before falling to sleep, telling her
you love her, looking a few seconds
longer at the fall leaves before
riding your bike down the path
of life, treasuring
what will never be again.

Four glasses of wine

reflections captured across wine glasses
two each, Montepulciano red half way up
clear glass across which we gaze at each other
through the words, mixing tears for all that is lost,
smiling at all that can be gained in moving on
at last leaving him behind without looking
back at who might be in the rear view mirror
we no longer care.

The Debate

Two men standing at podiums, behind their lecturns
facing an elderly gentlemen who hopes to keep them under control
facing tough questions requiring honest answers,
where are the ads they can just play to each other
and to us, the unbelieving audience that wonders what
we have gotten ourselves into with all this
where dollars win votes, the color of a tie,
the number of interruptions, the loudest voices,
the body language, what issues, we ask
and what answers.
We are left wondering.

Riding to Work

the final bridge before crossing to the other side,
from golden leaves to paved parking lots,
from the breeze across my cheek to fluorescent lights,
from breathing deep to holding my breath.
water flows under this bridge, high in Spring,
a more relaxed flow in Fall to capture the leaves
and carry them, every so slowly, dancing on each
ripple across farms and fields, slowly, slowly
to the open sea.

Writing on Water

if you write on water
no one can read the letters, the words, the thoughts
and you are no longer responsible as the ripples
wash onto a distant shore
they are left staring at the reflection of the moon
glittering its own content and
you walk away in your new outfit
having performed your assigned task
of creating nothingness
yet claiming credit
for what.