In the East End,
in a brisk wind, sleeveless,
I blow dandelions
through the abandoned lot
by the doughnut shop
across from the all-week
fleamarket, watch the minivans
pull in and out,
the oldsters settling
at the counter in turn
with the newspaper
and a cup of coffee.
Huey Lewis belts softly
from a tv screen hanging
in the front corner;
I catch you singing
into your t-shirt happy
to be stuck with you
as I sidle up to order
my glazed lemon,
and, like she means it,
the waitress smiles.

for the singer with the cyanide eyes


Maybe this
will be easier;

maybe there is hope beyond frost;
maybe our breath will jut
in steamy tomorrows

across a river that never
freezes; maybe your dreams will dream yet
tachycardic, wild and blue,

like the pulse of the ocean,
muffling the deaths that lie spread-
eagled across decades,

hissing obscenities
under the bedspread, the deaths
that smell ever-so-softly

of overripe promises,
understated like
magnolia blossoms

at the end of summer…
like secrets for a December
no man has seen.