Fish Fry

The place became terribly crowded about 10 minutes after we arrived. We ordered fish dinners and settled into noise. My wife and son watched the Keno numbers on a TV across from them. They were looking for patterns from draw to draw, like card counting.

"There's your 7 again," she said.

"Ahh, the 22."

I watched the door as more and more people arrived. Most of them were older couples, but some were young. They were all hungry and a bit unsettled as they paced the room having small conversations with friends and acquaintances, looking for a table that wasn't there.

The oldest couple slipped quietly into seats unnoticed before a table was even clean. They both smelled like pipe smoke, warm vanilla soot. They both ordered decaf and fish, then waited in silence having said everything necessary 20 years prior to their arrival.

A middle aged woman smiled at me as I ate perch. She and her husband had split up in their patrol of the room, keeping a seasoned eye on the progress of patrons. I smiled back at her in awkward mid-chew, thinking, she'd slit my goddam throat to take this table. 

Let's just say I kept my eyes open, looking for patterns in the noise, unsettled in my own way, as my son ate shrimp like popcorn and devoted himself to Keno numbers as if he'd discovered a new religion.

On Superior Avenue with a Fistful of Daisies on the Eve of the RNC.

It's summer in Cleveland.

Thunderstorms rumble

violent along the lakeshore,

crank up the humidity,

and seem to foreshadow

the ghastly roadshow of politicians

lining up skulls to be busted.

I woke up after last night's storm

wondering, "How close is the sound of thunder

to the echo of tanks on Superior?"

I've heard they built a stage on Public Square

for the voicing of opinions, strategically placed 

to be nowhere near any politicians ear.

Children, idealists, and rabble-rousers 

will bloom there like daisies,

until the tear gas comes.

I read somewhere

you can use a daisy as a gas mask

by placing the flower in your mouth, then

breathing through the stem.

Two Summertime Haiku

Independence Day.

Fireworks to the south

through a forest window, just

above the treetops.

Hide and Seek.

Kids count to thirty

in harmony before they

run into darkness.

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.