rock teeth in Utah

packing never gets easier

how many poems about packing,
the uncertainty about what to bring,
the weather, my mood, whether to be stylish,
who I might meet, what I will do, how much
is too much, how much too little,
what brand of toothpaste, do I have to go
through security, is the car full, will my husband
complain.
the answer to that is no.
Will I,
perhaps when he loads his greasy bike
next to my precious sheepskin for my
little bony hips befitting a little old woman,
that's what my daughter calls me as she
towers over me.
I don't let her forget where she
comes from.

What a Day it Was

and what a day it was.

an old man in white visited a black man,

the most powerful man in the world

who watches helplessly as 

the pictures roll across the screen,

a man desperately gripping his children as the rubber dingy

flips away from them,

a lone tree in Croatia offered shade to a crowd

of suffering migrants,

a man talking to a hippopotamus

and a baby swaddled in a snowsuit

in summer,

peacefully sleeping in the 

middle of a gymnasium 

somewhere in the world.

what a day it was.

drinking wine shown to aid in French conversation

the surveys continued on the effects of wine
on performance,
flute improv
French conversation
happiness and contentment;
all found to be aided by wine consumption.
the type of wine was found to be insignificant
as long as it was drinkable,
I hid the good wine upstairs and left the
crummy stuff in the kitchen,
he won't notice after he drinks enough whiskey.

the experimental data on drinking wine before bed to promote sleep

they say that drinking alcohol before bed interferes with sleep
i contest that
after depriving myself last night of wine
only to find myself watching the clock go by
minute by eternal minute, second by second,
each hour was a century of waiting
for what except to scientifically determine
that drinking wine before bed is good and aids
in good sleep.

Napping Three Hours

where did she go during those three hours,
her eyes twitching, then her right leg, she's moving
somewhere in her own space,
dreaming of children and lovers, of black dogs
and long hikes in high meadows,
in her dreams there are no troubles, she
chases away strange men in black cars
and picks sweet tomatoes from her garden,
no wonder she lingers in sleep.

telling the temperature by crickets

they say you can tell the temperature
by cricket, counting how many chirps in
fourteen seconds and adding forty.
the crickets in our neighborhood must be stoned
like most everyone around here, the scent
of marijuana floats through my window.
they chirp sluggishly and notify me that I
should be wearing a sweatshirt when I'm
comfortable in short sleeves.
i'll set the metronome to the correct pulse
and broadcast it to the cricket masses
every night until snow hushes them
for the long winter ahead.