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.