Poetry

Fox spots Crow in the top of a tree.
“That carrion she pecks must come to me.”
He ponders how to ply his wit
And award himself the whole of it.

He was the last cowboy in Massachusetts,
stabling the palomino in his mother’s garage,

            It was amusing to see
     The quick pet Sparrow and the Cat
     Engage in harmless duels that
  Exercised their friendly rivalry.

I’ve fluttered around the edge of cliques,
pressed my beak against the bars,
not in envy, but out of interest,
and for the little warm
glow they give off. 

My broker and I watched the markets drop, 
ticker crawling across the bottom of the Bloomberg screen, 
and salvaged what we could,
kept Microsoft, sold AXA, unwound

I descended into the underworld again
in my dream and there for the umpteenth time 
stood my father in a plaid button-down shirt
and khakis a freshly lit pipe a wreath of smoke 

Has there ever been a group of agnostics so intent
upon meaning
in every car door shutting

I had just taken her photograph.
Everyone else crowded on the back deck, 
talking, flirting, admiring the silver
of sunset in their drinks. 

When we found out our daughter had gone deaf,
I did not question God’s fairness— 

If fluent motion could condense,
the solid essence might be this
vibrating motorcycle, dense