Early Lesson in Real Estate

I used to know a place

along our property line

where grape vines curled

overhead in a tube

like a wave break.

The space had size enough

for a few kids secluded,

carpeted with pine needles.

It was a comfortable hideout 

when necessary.

This has become my only

measure of good real estate,

small, soft, fresh smelling,

and few unwanted guests.

I learned it at 8 years old.

Water Water Everywhere and All the Cats Did Sleep.

The rain persisted,

turned downpour.

Our streetlight

went dark.

Leaves in porchlight

cast shadows

like giant spiders.

Three cats

slept easy

as water shook

the downspout.

It rained. We listened.

A Short Poem Regarding Baseball and Saying Goodbye.

There is so much

in the letting go,

I thought to myself,

as a first pitch flew

a few feet above

the batters head.

Goldfinches

The goldfinches knew you'd gone

well before the For Sale sign hit the yard.

I knelt beneath their empty wire

as the shadows of dozens of praying mantis

flew across piles of cut peonies.

The sunflowers bowed their heads

like monks in silent prayer

before your statue of St. Jude,

patron saint of impossible causes.

Where have the goldfinches gone?

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.