Sleep

When the leaf falls in the collapsing din 

of summer light, it doesn’t crawl along 

the ground, lame in heavy breathing for months. 

The leaf lets go of mother’s hand and floats

gently to her grave. Not my old sweet Lab 

who teeters into hers, bowels and backside--

all her senses--in disarray.  I wonder. 

Is it kind to let her find her own end? 

To let her sleep all her days, 

to crawl crippled to her water bowl? 

This loyal friend who trusts 

herself to me as to her own mother. 

She'd follow me unflinching to the vet, 

her eyes allegiant as she slips into that other sleep.

And what would she be missing? 

Sleep is sleep. 

Only her dreams would end.

Loud

It’s like waking up to the short wild scream of the horn

of a distant train blowing and you know that great big

black iron horse is charging this way though still unseen

behind the hill. No need to rush, but it’s coming now, 

the horn is blowing for you to hear--a shrill wheeze in 

the wind, the sound not yet piercing your skull but you know

it’s time to stand up, gather your things, prepare for boarding. 

And the sound keeps getting louder,

like the high groan of yard dogs pulling on their chains

and yet there is a pleasantness there, a kind of promise

when your heart dares to listen. But still, how can you

ever be at ease, how can you ever rest with that horn 

groaning louder in your ear?

Making ends meet

On the playground, the Sisters of the Holy Cross sell little bags

of chips and boxes of chocolate milk. 

Not expensive but more than I ever have in my pocket, 

which is almost always nothing. 

But sometimes I am the owner of dimes, 

stolen from my father’s dresser or given by a fairy, 

so I can purchase a box of ice cold milk, 

maybe even a bag of chips. 

As I write about it now, a half century later, 

I am overcome by the same lightness of spirit 

that follows those first sips,

that satisfying sweetness assaulting my mouth. 

My pleasure seems extreme 

because it isn’t just the flavors of the loot that brings 

exhilaration, it is that the power to buy 

is the ticket into the universe. It makes me part of it, 

no longer she who stands outside it, on the edge 

of the Black Hole horizon, observing the brilliant stars 

around her. Now I have what it takes to belong 

to the beautiful world swirling around that playground. 

Between

Awake another night I am, your news 

sitting on my bedside--obese, ulcered, stinking 

until the wee hours, the first light of another

day of fright, pressing down on this 

mattress like a four-wheeler--tossing me 

from my own bed. Your news cloaks the

room, my limbs, my dreams, all day

my eyeballs burn as if they'd been soaked 

all night in vinegar and it’s not over yet, 

your news will trap for sure more nights 

between my sight and thought, 

between the dusk and dusk again.