Walgreens

           

Joan asked if she could

help me –        

a friendly enough clerk

at Walgreen’s,

with a ‘ JOAN ’ name tag -

and I’m trying on sunglasses.

Try these with the pink lenses,

she hands me a pair

I would not have chosen

and as I lift them to my nose

to model them in the mirror

she explains that,

You’ll be able to see God

and the pink glow will warm

your understanding.

Morning epiphany.

The afternoon spent

in a pink haze of holiness,

contemplating all those stories

of Zen masters and their

eccentric methods,

time journeys by association,

scribbling poems about everything,

formulating new life priorities,

and wondering about a shrine

and candles for St. Joan.

After Dinner

            

It’s tight at our table,

unknown parts of the same group,

face to face and she wants

to teach me to drink Cognac.

The waiter brings snifters and a bottle,

she mulls it over hot tea –

sets the pear-shaped bottom on its side

pours like ‘time has stopped’ slowly

the amber liquid into the heated glass.

Small deft hands stroke the aged decanter

as warm zephyrs intoxicate

the narrowing space between us.

“Sip and swirl, don’t swallow,

let it slide down your tongue,

ease into your throat.

You have to get past the alcohol

and taste the fruit.

Great tasters can tell the grape,

the region, the exact plot of ground.”

My ground is sinking around me,

my face and limbs like embers

as the slick silk glides

as she has instructed,

…. and then she does hers….

the French would be proud.

She circles the rim of the glass,

discovers a drop of the nectar,

with the slightest of smiles

and mink eyes stuck to mine,

puts her finger to my lips

and asks me again to taste the fruit.

sifting through the nuts

    sifting through the nuts

I’m sitting here on a humid

August Sunday afternoon

sifting through a can of mixed nuts,

wanting to write about

‘sitting on humid afternoons’

and worrying about plagiarizing

writers old and new

who have done similar.

What could I say

that hasn’t been said,

or how could I know

or not know?

Can I be content with

‘I haven’t said it before’

at least on paper,

at least on a Sunday afternoon,

at least not in my underwear

with a mouthful of pecans,

waiting as I seem to be

for evening to fall,

to produce something incomparable,

something so clearly original

that it will make the Planter’s man

tip his top hat, perhaps

even remove his monocle?

Doorknocker

             

Dorothy and her entourage on the front porch

wearing those ruby shoes

dinged up from yellow bricks,

asking directions, in search of a wise man,

wanting the unknown behind every door,

in every home, in every neighborhood.

Toto, provocateur, seeming innocent,

jumps from her arms

uninvited through the legs of the doorkeeper,

darting from room to room,

yapping, making mental notes

as the unexpecting jump to cover themselves.

Do you know the way to Oz?

I have to find the wizard.

My friends and I can cook you dinner

from whatever you have on hand

but we really need your help.

We could use some courage,

compassion and a brain,

a quick skip to the heart of the matter,

then back to Auntie Em,

with a Totoful of low-down

from all our different stops.

I have to know what witches and wizards

do outside of Kansas,

their tales of grist and girth.

I need to stop clicking these heels

and sleeping with munchkins,

I need to snoop through your pantry,

and break into song.

I need to hear your story.