Preoccupied Sky.

I opened all of the blinds,

wide, to afford the greatest

view of mid-morning sky.

Clouds and confusion,

morning and afternoon,

summer and fall.

I just stood there,

watched it for awhile.

A kid I'd met once or twice 

came by to discuss philosophy.

I told him, See me next week.

Perhaps I'll have more time.

Besides, I'm preoccupied 

by this sky, split wide open.

First Sentence.

And that was the moment 

I found the first sentence 

of my next story 

on a beat ramp in a skatepark 

just outside of Boston.

Still Life in the Back of the Station Wagon in the Summer of My 44th Year.

Bookstore

I want a bookstore

cat, but I already have

three cats too many.

Commonwealth Books, 9 Spring Street, Boston. Go there if you find yourself in Boston.

Ours is a Love Story for the 3rd of July.

Bottle rockets burst a few blocks away,

then overhead. Our cats sleep uneasy,

ears shifting quick at each explosion.

It's awfully cool for the 3rd of July, 

I think, as a northwind blows across

sunset, into the front window.

My wife is in the next room.

Her fingers pound the computer 

keyboard like a fistfight.

I think about the day we met,

more than a decade ago

to the day. We were children

going out for a movie and 

some drinks. Perhaps, I will look back 

in a dozen years or so

at your attacks on the machine,

audible for miles around,

and think the same thing.

We were children then,

I'll say, as I sat and listened to you

beat hell out of your laptop.

Another blast startles a cat.

I consider how much your typing

sounds like a lit brick of firecrackers.

Drunk in the Afternoon

I sat on the lawn,

barefoot in sunshine.

My white cat visited

for a moment, then went

to eat a half dozen leaves

from the catnip plant

before passing out

underneath our car.

I nodded knowingly, then 

got up to head inside,

leaving him to enjoy

his afternoon inebriation.

An Olfactory Analysis.

In the hotel hall

a boy says, "smells like someone's

got a pet skunk."