Haiku Written at a Railroad Crossing.

Twenty-three tankers

and a boxcar. I haven't

seen you since July.

Lots

All these vacant lots,

hardly anyone around

who will remember.

Good News, Bad News, he said.

Dave came in this morning

to tell me he heard my name

on the news, so he turned.

I was dead or 

had killed somebody.

He couldn't remember, but

I should look into it to see

what I've been up to.

As it stands, I'm not

answering my phone today.

I'm not sure

what's going on

except

I seem to have some

explaining to do.

Christmas in Absurdity.

Christmas Eve

came as a false spring

with sunshine and 59 degrees.

Last night

we walked around in sweatshirts

looking at lights.

This morning over coffee,

among the other tales of sports

and murder, I read that

one in three Ohioans

are now eligible for assistance

from state food banks.

Without irony,

the governor allocated $500,000

federal money to feed them.

Local press called him

Santa Claus, oblivious that the gov's policies

helped create this poverty.

An old man who delivers

hunger to little children,

inadequately remedies the issue,

and is praised for his efforts

is befitting a Christmas Eve

30 degrees warmer than normal.

Last Time.

I'd been working in the fall chill

clipping dead flowers from the yard

when I decided on a short ride

through our neighborhood,

grabbed a skateboard

from the basement,

and went.

Immediately,

in the physicality

of balance and velocity,

hum of wheels on pavement

like waves on a beach,

I headed west

as a burning sunset

dove into the woods

at East Rec,

gone, just as I

used to do 

in this same

oak forest

20 years ago,

just as I

may never

do again.

When a patronizing email awaits you first thing on a Monday morning, but something brilliant in the sunrise won't allow you to give it the sort of energy that might bring you down.

I nodded through your

patronization, and set

my coffee cup on the desk.

Sunshine was creeping west

through the house rows

as frost shone on rooftops

silver like something precious,

something rare, sagging shingles

an asymmetric work of art.

It wasn't winter yet, nor was it

problematic to be patronized.

I've been here before, I thought,

took another sip and smiled.

Cruise Ship Food Poisoning.

Got a call from an electronic woman

in Kissimmee, Florida tonight who assured me

I'd won a cruise for two.

Having not been born recently, being 

deathly afraid of cruise ship food poisoning,

not to mention my possession of

a general mistrust of all things Florida,

I hung up. Sometimes a robo-call

is just too good to be true.