Thursday

Max as the Cadbury bunny

the sky
is a pale bruised canvas
for a convalescent
sun, and the cat
and i lie up
against the space

heater, waiting
for the watery
light of late afternoon
to wander in
through the upstairs
windows. i

am thinking bare-legged
thoughts, dreaming
of sand. he dislikes
the lilac candle,
the smell
of the old coffee.

today is too cold
for outside poems.
even the flies
that settle on
the unborn bodies
of outside poems

are sluggish,
and the cat bats
them down easy.
looking out, we see
power lines and bare
branches over pastel

rooftops. he does
his best cadbury
pose, breaks
my concentration
before the concrete
of the words has set,

leaves his imprint
in their wake.
fitting that it’s three
nights til Easter.
some days we wish
it were May already.

an overstayed welcome

Feathered pressures
filter through the slightly
wilted scent
of hyacinths, a spring
reneged of its
promise before
bedtime, all daydreams
on layaway until
a tomorrow when
the threat
of snow is once
again passed
and Easter flowers
forget their bitter-
tipped Lenten promises.
Then,
then the poets
will grow like grass
fed on a sun in song,
open windowed-
coquettes batting
long-lashed verses
at the heart of a city
and spilling secrets
from bound pages tucked
in unbuttoned sleeves.

(Until then let
the runners run
and the dreamers
drink. You and I shall
close our eyes
and breathe deep
of dying hyacinths
as we
wring the holy water
from our best Sunday
sheets, making nests
from nightmares and
sweatstains where
together we’ll lie
down to

wait.)