The Kids Are Alright

In the quiet hours of morning, say
between five and seven o'clock
when the bitter wind blows dusty snow
like so many stars into the streetlights,
and a cup of coffee tastes like all you need,
when I hear my son giggle in his sleep
so I know that everything is alright,
and the cats don't say a word, only
stare at me like they've been waiting
the last eight hours or so with a hope
that I'll fill up the food bowl, just then,
in the quiet hours of morning,
everything is alright.

Borrowed Time (or The Lifespan of Belief)

Two days before Christmas,
with the scent of ginger in the air,
the 7 year old weighed in

while making cookies,
"That Santa Claus at school
was a fake."

Snow swirled outside the window.
My wife stopped stirring, and the lights
on the tree momentarily dimmed.

"Why is that," I asked.
"His belt was different
than when I saw him before."

"I think it was the real Mrs. Claus, though."
"Right on," I said, as my wife
went back to stirring the dry ingredients.

She and I glanced at one another, and
smiled weakly, with the knowledge
that we are now on borrowed time.

The Day When Sitting in a Driveway Felt Like a Miracle

I grabbed a chair from the garage,
and set it in the driveway facing southwest.

It was 5:30 pm in November.  A sunset
played around with the idea of blue and pink,
made black silhouettes of tens of thousands
of seemingly intertwined branches.

The silhouettes pulsed like veins.

I followed a sparrow with my eyes, then
I thought of north, the tilt of the earth,
and I saw myself from space, sitting there
in that lawn chair while the sun shone
on the southern hemisphere and our planet
deliberately spun, hurtling through space
like a misguided sparrow.

Then, all of a sudden,
I was in the driveway again.
Sunset had ended.
My hands were cold.
I took a breath.

Roses on Thanksgiving

My grandmother called yesterday.

For only the second time in her 97 years
the backyard rose bush is in bloom
on Thanksgiving.  She had told me
about the first time, and the story
held the weight of Greek myth.  So,
despite the lateness, and a few killing
frosts, there is a bouquet of pink roses
on her table one more time before
the onset of winter.

Hot Water Heater

The water heater leaked slowly
for a few weeks
leaving surrealistic puddles
on our basement floor.

As the puddles grew larger
they took on the shapes
of my worst enemies,
or symbolized the deadly sins.

When I left the house
it was as if I were headed to Vegas,
a basement dry or underwater?,
a crapshoot every time.