the art of calligraphy, the beauty of a name

I scribbled my name

illegibly with my beloved fountain pen

I bought it in Paris.

Classy.

he cradled his cheap ball point pen,

waving it in the air like a conductor working

her orchestra, the glitter of her gown

temporarily blinding us

thus I watched him, transfixed

as the tip of his pen touched the paper

in great circular motions to form 

the first letter of my given name,

my name, which had never seemed so

beautiful as then, finishing with a 

grand flourish, releasing his pen

from paper at the same moment

as the conductor

lowered her baton 

to roaring applause.

three x three

very short poems
use few words
late at night

on being lesbian

I wouldn't know but I read about it
in a poetry book,
about a woman wearing 6 inch stilletto heels
on the arm of her white butch.
she was beautiful, the sheen of her black skin
dark against a glittering white sheath gown.
the whole room turned and gaped
in the biggest small town between
Chicago and L.A.
I would have stared, too,
breaking away from my white balding husband.
I know what he looks like 24/7
and I still love him.
But that would have been something to
imagine them together, the white butch
and her black lover, skin on skin under
flashing lights, who knows what they
could do.

Droplets on Saran wrap

how amazing.

and mysterious

that the condensed droplets near the 

edge of the bowl were so tiny

(steam having risen up from within,

each molecule landing on the inner surface,

migrating across to join another and another,

forming islands of droplets,

I want to know why the middle ones are bigger,

it must because the molecules are more mobile

perhaps the molecules close to the bowl edges

are chilly, a cold breeze blowing off 

the glass bowl.

Dictator and Slave

the house is cleaner

because I am the only one who can walk.

the piles of clothes and pillows, books, phone,

computer, and assorted various

have one less vector to spread them throughout.

I pick up after myself when it's just my clutter

for reasons unknown.

As dictator, I feed him what I think he should have, and how much.

As slave, I feed him what he needs, how much he wants and when he needs it.

I do the dishes and pick up before work

and after dinner.

he's starting to move out of the bed and 

pillows, and lawn chairs are migrating,

papers are showing up on the floor 

and my time as dictator and slave may be ending.

I'll kind of miss it.

generosity of spirit

they brought us dinner,
a Dutch oven filled with chili
corn bread baked in a cast iron skillet
best of all, their smiles and good cheer.
it wasn't necessary, but gratefully accepted
even as they enjoyed, then endured, a hundred
photos and not a few videos,
not unlike the old fashioned slide shows where
you had carefully assessed whether the
free dinner was worth an hour of bad photos.
you go anyway to see your friends
and find it's a good time.
Tonight we ate chili and corn bread,
drank beer and wine, had some tea,
pie and ice cream and
Bella licked all the plate clean to a
Cold Water Wash.

caretaking

it's dawn.
the dog needs to be walked
the coffee pot needs washing for the new brew
Bella waits impatiently for me to feed her
and Stephen waits patiently for his coffee,
his yogurt, granola and fruit,
for me to sit down.
Work awaits me
and once home, dinner needs to be cooked,
my flute calls to me,
Stephen needs me to get more ice for his foot,
and would I get his book, his phone, can I move the TV
and dishes are undone and the laundry is unfolded,
the flute got five minutes
the dog needs to be walked
it's late
I'm exhausted
it's dark
at dawn the dog will need to be walked
again.