Matchless

Having sent him a copy of my new chapbook, "River", my friend, Elyria poet Alex Gildzen, sent me a matchbook from Nick's Place and the link. I am honored to be included in his latest mail project.

River

New chapbook coming together. Get ahold of me for a copy.

House Fire Snowstorm

I saw smoke

south on the horizon,

thought it was a factory,

but there's no industry

out there anymore.

This time of year

it's more likely a house fire.

I waited for sirens,

but none came

as dusty snow 

blew across Route 57

like so much ash.

As Loneliness Slips Into Obsolescence

I answer my messages

alone this afternoon

feeling social and

simultaneously anti-social,

but not the least bit

contradictory. 

One of my cats watches,

has a bath, waits for me.

With all this technology,

perhaps loneliness

will go the way 

of the rotary phone,

I say to the cat.

He looks up briefly, then goes 

back to licking his own feet.

When I set down my device

he jumps into my lap,

walks in two circles

and lays down. He is warm

and my friend, so I am happy.

We sit together as I think

about Ancient Egyptians

domesticating cats 

4000 years ago, 

wondering if they thought 

they'd rendered loneliness

obsolete.

Practical Cats Who Have Never Met T.S. Eliot

For our cats

the removal of our Christmas tree

is a practical matter.

It is not muddied

with nostalgia, nor sorrow

at holiday's end.

There's no dread

concerning January's

brutality, no

worry over

a lack of daylight,

the mental toll.

Our cats miss the tree

as a water source with

subtle pine undertones.

Concern over these 

tomorrows, the cruelty of winter,

is for the rest of us.

Add caption

Belief

Last year was the last year

my son let me believe that he believed

in Santa Claus. We suspected he'd known.

He's a smart kid, logical, and wouldn't

be bullshitted for long. The real disappointment

is his disappointment that we are all complicit

in perpetuating this ruse. After all,

if we'd lie about this, what else is a lie?

Religion? Democracy? the promise that you can 

be whatever you want to be when you grow up?

We got a live tree again this year, a Fraser fir

that smells like a childhood Christmas.

My son and I set up the model train

encircling the trunk. I'm not sure

his heart was in it. Perhaps he's still 

disenchanted, I thought, as he raised the lever 

bringing the small locomotive to life.

Then he blew the whistle and smiled at me,

his face illuminated by strings of lights,

a glowing star high above.  Belief, or not

it will soon be Christmas morning.

Ride Along

An Oven Algorithm

She is having her new oven delivered today,
and confides that it is an exciting, if not
emotional time.  She has spent 50 years
with the old one and fears she may cry
when they finally take it away.

I have never owned an oven, or anything
for that matter, for 50 years.  Despite that,
I try to sound sympathetic and empathize,
even though I find it difficult to wrap my mind
around a relationship of that length.

As the phone goes quiet for a moment,
I wonder if there is an algorithm
to determine the average bowls of soup, or
pierogies prepared by a Polish grandmother
over the lifespan of her oven.

She and I simply have a different measure
of time.  She is able to use major appliances
in her calculation.  I will need another 50 years
to understand loss to the degree at which
she has experienced it.