Other Side.

A fly bounces twice off the living room window

desperately seeking out the warmth of a new morning,

wings buzz against glass in his confusion.

From the other side of the pane, our black and white cat

grabs hold of the screen, his way of letting us know

he'd like to come inside for a bite to eat and some water.

He works nights protecting the place from skunks,

possums, raccoons, neighborhood strays, and

anyone else who might question his territory.

I'm here on our couch with a cup of coffee trying 

to understand an article about European economics,

but nothing seems black and white.

I can feel sleep at the corners of my eyes.

My desperate attempts at cognition

are interrupted by the cat taking futile swings

at the fly.  All three of us undeterred 

in our desire to get to the other side.

Lacking the Appropriate Motivation for This Particular Discovery.

In attempting to determine

the age of this notebook, I

found my directions to D.C., but 

I already have plans to swap records

at Hanson's in Oberlin today.

Like Flight

On most days when I was a kid

walking home from school,

I'd stop in the middle

of the 4th Street Bridge

to peer over the round railing

into the brown roll of Black River

coming at me like vertigo.

The perpetual motion

of the water, combined

with the peculiar slant of bridge 

created something off balance, 

unsettled, exacerbated 

by traffic behind, and wind 

through the valley.

On some days

in small moments anyway,

when conditions were just right,

like Friday afternoon or

the last day of school before summer

it felt like everything was possible,

like no one else was was around.

It felt like flight.

When I Was A Young Teacher.

Up a few flights of stairs in the old high school,

on the way to my classroom, I listen to rain drum the sky light.

Years ago, when I was a young teacher, 

Barnes took us through the bell tower onto the roof.

I looked out over treetops and Black River,

in the city where I teach History, and

felt like I was accomplishing something,

beyond overcoming a mild sense of vertigo. 

Trees held onto their early green

while neighborhood kids ran through vacant lots 

playing tag. I watched from the edge 

knowing they'd be my students.

Today as the rain drums the sky light, 

my memory is drawn to that time 

when I was a young public school teacher,

and it was still something to be.

Fight or Flight.

I watched the sun burn down

afternoon into the Cuyahoga valley

and thought about Jack's

forlorn rags of growing old.

If we're fortunate we'll see those days

that tear through years with

increasing speed, like route 80

through a forest in spring,

and feel brand new, ready

for a fistfight, a fit of laughter,

the next great work of art, or maybe

just a chance to mow the lawn.

Haiku Freight Train #11: Construction

Building humidity
from nothing, then a cold rush,
my back to the wind.

Haiku Freight Train #10: Nothing

I remember blue,

then not much of anything.

It doesn't matter.