He Is Burning

He is burning
his dresser in his backyard.

Smashing it to pieces,
he tosses them in.

Flames leap skyward.
Smoke envelops the man.

Where will he keep
his extra large clothes,
I wonder.

Just then he attacks
the remains of the dresser.

Like a maniac
he swings something wildly.

I cannot see weapon for smoke.
He has gone mad.

There are cracks, thuds,
and the splitting of wood

illustrates his anger.
Then it is quiet, except

for crackling fire
and the shuffle of my feet

as I quietly back away.

Nothing On My Mind

I go out into the sun
of my small backyard often
to kick a ball around.

I might kick it up in the air
once or twice, keeping it up there,
dozens of times if I am lucky.

I do this to stay active,
and in the process do no thinking.
It is pleasant there in the sun

with nothing on my mind.
To my neighbors, I am a curiosity.
"He's kicking that ball again."

I overheard one tell another
as he shook his head and scratched
his oversized belly.

Then my ball hit the ground
and I kicked it very hard
at my chain link fence where,

in place of something more formal,
I have spray painted fence posts
to make a goal.

This game from my childhood
makes me happy, even now when I am
expected to think serious thoughts.

The heat of sunshine on my arms and face,
the slight weight of a ball on a left foot,
right knee, right foot, 1, 2, 3, 4, etcetera
before the mad rattle of chain link fence.

I am a curiosity, a man
with nothing on his mind.

Bottle Rocket's Red Glare

The neighborhood kids are hoarding
leftover bottle rockets, I just know it.
They are preparing a final assault
on the suburbs. Good for them.

The rest of us, it seems, are going
down without a fight, overcome
by our own relative misfortune, misinformed
by a riddle of political advertisements.

My own final assault is only a conviction
to vote for the lesser of two evils
and to remember, lots of people have it worse.
Having drawn perspective like a sword,

I leap to charge. A bottle rocket sails
over the neighbor's garage, pops,
then falls to the earth at my feet.
Even well armed, I am not optomistic.

She Is Every Possibility

She's got eyes full of diamonds,
a mouthful of rage,
and she's gotten me to believe again.

She has 10,000 ideas
before 7 in the morning
and she'll smile in the telling

like I am her co-conspirator,
as if we will topple governments,
and we may, if she asks.

Finches

Four finches at her feeder,
a few more on the line.

I had mown the lawn
before she knew I'd started.

There is shade on her
back porch at this hour.

She says a few words
about plant food, a picnic.

I have nothing to say, so
there is quiet, birdsong until

a mad roar of boxcars
scatters our thoughts

like finches from a feeder.