while the dogs pee in the bushes

while the dogs pee in the bushes
let us commemorate red dresses,
pomegranate margaritas and mixed fajitas,
let us remember stories about ex-girlfriends,
reading glasses adorned with paper clips,
toothpaste smudges on blue sweaters
and mushroom soup in cafes
let me remember Yoga books from the 70's
striped socks and holes in my favorite jeans,
on-line Christmas shopping days after Christmas
and bicycle baskets, Buffalo Exchange and
best of all, afternoon naps where you wake
to the moon traversing overhead
and wonder where the hours went.

Fulfilling Anna's Dream

thousands march in the square
as Putin gathers his strongmen,
his political artillery lined up to shoot them down
in cold blood in the street, masked, they
empty the shelves of Moscow to starve
the thousands who will not sit down
will go home only to rest and eat the
last crumbs in the breadbox before
heading to the square again.
They will endure.


(I am reading about Anna Akhmatova, a Russian poet who suffered terribly under the Russian tyranny. She died in 1966.)

a poem after Prose by William Corbet

our friendship has shrunken to postcards and Christmas greetings
once we lingered in fragrant pine forests, loaded packs filled
with gorp, Kraft macaroni and cheese and canned tuna fish
what days they were under black skies decorated in starlight
you gaze at me from the Christmas postcard among your family,
your daughter wears braces this year; your son has grown so tall
but I know that you wish you were with me under the starlit nights
I can see it in your handwriting and the way you sign your name,
so reluctantly.

What happened to my broccoli?

what happened to my broccoli
its branches leafing out from a sturdy stalk
denuded like the trees gracing the Champs Elysee
alas, my plate does not care for elegance,
seeking instead delectable morsels
that should be perched on every branch.
what happened to my broccoli
between store and saucepan
leading to much sorrow.

Monday evenings with Ana

Monday evening 6:30 to 7:45 or so,
tea in hand, pens at the ready, a page open
we lean towards each other and say the word
"blue" or "owl" or "the expedition that never was"
and proceed to write, faces scrunched or intent
or both, conjuring up words to match that maybe
will please, maybe not, but we do it together
that together of writing and finishing, and reading,
and laughing, praising, exclaiming, understanding
every time a bit more of each other
and ourselves.

So tonight Ana is not here..and I am missing her!

Christmas

dog breath on Christmas morning
rousing me to make coffee and muesli, strap skis
to my feet and glide on icy tracks left behind
always behind the stronger ones ahead of me so
I lag as always happily now to go home to
waffles and a new bike with studded snow tires,
never have I been so excited on a Christmas
morning as I admire my new bike with a shiny
front basket for carrying cast iron skillets of
sauteed pears swimming in rum and cream.

Tequila

amber, blanco,reposado, silver
he loves them all in the aisle of Liquor Mart
wondering if Jenny will notice the charge on the credit card
she will, she's like that.
"It's been a tough month", he practices with slightly slurred speech
imagining the smooth slide across his tongue and down
his throat leaving behind a pleasantly burning sensation.
he knows she'll want to discuss whether the tequila
should be a shared expense, it's his vice after all.
he knows the answer, unconsciously reaching for his wallet
to check its health, for reassurance.
Reposado, 100% agave, come with me and
decorate my sideboard.