Williamsburg Road

urban weeds

East of the city,
there are tall pines standing
scant and sentry, as if they knew
this were the road to the ocean.

Amid dandelioned lawns
and asphalt wasteland, gas
is cheaper, repair shops
like mushrooms:

frequent and lightly
unsavory. On Sundays
at the carwash,
every concrete cave

is full, as though
we could siphon
off the week’s sins
with high-suction

hoses; April
has always been
a month for pollen
and repentance.

the last poem

pipeline in flood

at the end,
i don’t know that we are any better off.

the rains have stopped
and everything green
is growing, but we still don’t
have travel plans,
and tomorrow is anyone’s guess.

the squirrels got the first
strawberries, and the red
rose is set
to open its first blooms
any day now.

i got through without owing in taxes.
i can hear church bells
with the front door open.
sometimes you return my texts.
some nights we sleep like lovers.

it is the first of May,
and the river calls.
you told me yesterday: three
cars tumbled in, spilling
crude somewhere

upstream. i don’t know
if it was a result
of the storms, or
our negligence.
it will reach here,

they say, but not when.


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.