When my son's car pulls up next to mine, waves of stink blast from his open window into mine

The driver's goofy smile tells

he does not remember 

     he spent 

last Christmas eve in jail 

     for another DUI

so I pull away without a word—

      run from thoughts that

chase me on the freeway 

     and all the rest of my life--

thoughts 

of what I might have said 

to change his mind, 

    to adjust his life--

to change this goddamned 

    ball game.  

Let him hit bottom, people say.  

     Let this abandoned building buckle, 

let all the junk catch fire

     and when the smoke clears, 

watch him rebuild 

      from ground up; 

watch him rise from ash like

     a brand new stadium,

watch him make those MVP

     home runs again.  

Near the pond

This bowl of oatmeal looks pathetic 

and I'm the one who prepares it for him.  

It waits and cools on the table 

as my love is wheeled down the hall

to our breakfast room.  

Bits of dried apple and puffs 

of cinnamon drift on

this mush the way 

lotus and spatterdock 

float on the pond.  

His eyes fall on it. 

The spoon and napkin wait 

for him to take the usual four bites 

though I hope he will eat it all this time. 

My love is so thin. 

But not his face. 

Still boned and squared.  

Not his hair: still full, still thick 

as sweetflag around the pond.  

But oh God he is so thin. 

He is disappearing--

a twig on which a few 

last blooms cling-- 

these last moments 

of summer.

They have learned patience

 Terrifying to live on this earth 

with so many

gods out to get you. 

      One day on the deck, the god 

of gods pleasures your skin

    but tomorrow sends

the god of ice 

     to swig you down. 

Then the storm god 

     frowns and your house shakes,

thudding on the roof.

     The cammellias bend and tremble.  

You want to save them but 

     the planters roll on the patio,

 your wind chimes scream

    from their perches.   

So wrap yourself in wool, think 

     of all the strays, human and other, 

hoping they find cover, thinking 

     there but for the grace of God....

thinking of your cousin off the ventilator 

     after 28 days, being wheeled home by her man, 

himself limping, wheezing;  

thinking of the ambulance that came

      for your neighbor, wondering what 

jaws sprang overnight in his

    yard-- just a day ago, you see him place 

 a Christmas tree in his green bucket.  

     How easily he wielded that nine-footer.  

Somewhere hills are caving, 

     there are mud slides.  Somewhere a car 

is crossing a line. 

      A virus gains power.  

Traumas creeping up behind us.  

     Striking. Out of the blue.

Out of sublime sunshine. 

     Picking a moment in their own time. 

The gods have patience. 

 

Spirit among spirits

Walking along Limantour beach,

a sumner day in winter

thinking, not thinking.  

Salmon drawn year after year 

spooning eggs in this open mouth

of fresh stream and salty  tide--

but how do they find 

this nest again?

Do they smell its spit

like wolves smell rabbits 

in the snow 

or an Eskimo spots a bear

in shades of white?

So many kinds of knowing  

closed off to me 

yet I love to wander, 

a spirit among spirits--

my bed a mere

stopover 

on the way 

to another world.

.  

You raise the boy in privilege

You raise him in privilege 

advantages galore:

private school 

forgiveness respect 

love and more

rains down 

from heaven:

the star athlete

star artist too

talent brains 

galore, 

even more--

it's almost unfair 

how much mana

smiles down on this 

one small life. 

And then a wind comes 

down and flips 

this life into a field 

and it all gives way 

like a fence blown 

down in the storm. 

How odd to hear him

rap on your window 

when the moon is low 

and see that face white  

and blank as snow, 

to see him bagging cans 

from the bins in the park

to see him thin as a reed

with eyes that spark  

like campfires in the dark;

that sun drenched boy   

of soccer fame sagging 

like some

abandoned 

house 

and the riddle 

of why 

and how 

will not let 

his father sleep 

one full night.

My friend's brother commits suicide

I know why 

they make themselves die. 

It's when the truth 

whips through their 

bodies 

that someone is never coming back

the war will never end

and the money ran out

and they are sleepless

and the man loves someone else

and they failed to castle when they 

could have,

and they believed that story 

and will be full of promise not

again and 

there's nowhere to send 

their hope.

It is when the truth,

like biting into 

milkweed,

cuts off the taste 

of sweetness.

There is a sharp indrawn 

breath

when they must decide 

to exhale 

now or never. 

Yes I do

The truth is I do not believe

     in magic, 

miracles, 

ghosts, souls--

      all that jazz.  

Yet when a hundred herons 

     sitting still 

on the edge of the shore 

      suddenly rise as one 

in a blur of down moving 

      in slow, slow beats 

blocking sky in their storm 

      of snow,  

I do, yes, 

yes I do 

     sense wings move in me.

I do 

     feel a swooping down 

from clifftops.

I do

      feel my body in that updraft 

soaring 

      toward the moon 

and what is left

      of me 

on this empty beach 

      is but a tiny cloud,

a mere idea

     on which good fortune dusts 

a sweet, sweet down.