The Samaritain

Today I helped an
old man cross a
bright,  busy street.

Taciturn, somber
he never asked
for help or anything,

cars whizzing by, 
office zombies and
children shuffling by.

Only some force of
inexplicable familiarity 
laced our heels together,

braving traffic together
nondescript,  inseparable 
chums from curb to curb,

til we turned a dark corner
and just like that he was
gone.

Rain II

Rain isn't pure
as it rolls over us
and rinses away
less than it leaves.

Enchanting scents little
more than reminders
of yesterday, somewhere
other than here,  now.

Seascapes we strolled
barefoot and pregnant
with ideals,  rivers
we cast line upon line in

suddenly drizzle on our
graying bare heads or
running off umbrellas
amongst the oblivious.

July's Wet Slap in the Face

All eyes look up

                                   then down, frowning

then up again

                                   away from ripples

cris-crossing 

                                   around wet feet

no different from

                                   six months prior and

most depressing

                                   of all.

A Wash

One from a parking lot entry
the other holding up the
door frame to a laundromat
a crumpled street and two decades
separate them and a lazy drizzle
that just won't subside.

One is a grey clad security guard
one is crowned with a white dome
one wears theirs much lower
one's toes can be seen
one of them is a woman
though I'm not sure which.

They observe the morning rain
they share their smiling laments
they turn their eyes up frequently
they shake their respective heads
they each stare at their feet
one gets back to work. 

Liberties

Given I've cursed myself

writing the title first,

I'll treat myself to a scribble,

poorly written, pointless lines

babbling, bubbling sloppily,

like those people I envy,

cranking it out without thought

or the slightest effort.

The Trooper

The storm blew in from the West

and out through the veranda door

so quickly, a white knot of thunder

in the already black night

that I forgot about the oil lamp

that I was reading by on the terrace 

when all Hell broke loose , fat raindrops 

carpet bombing my peaceful evening.

Somehow it survived the rain and gusts,

burning wildly from side to side

never surrendering until the last drop of oil

was gone, empty in the now silent, wet darkness.

Every Writer's Child

For some it's the squeak of an old hinge which sets them off

everytime someone enters or exits the kitchen

or perhaps how the toilet paper roll was hung,

adding to an already dubious, rump-filled fate.

Of course, those odd creatures who see even more backsides,

politicians, will make just about anyone's blood boil.

I tote no special immunity to any of these chafes

but there's something worse still if you ask me

*and you haven't*

to watch helplessly as a brave book is consumed

by an uncaring soul who just wants to beat it's secrets from it,

clutched in both hands, a mad grin, eyes positively flashing,

ripping through hundreds of pages, months...years of

some poor author's life devoured in a matter of hours,

left limp and lifeless on a chair somewhere thereafter.

Turning The Clocks Ahead

Every spring I like to tease myself

from the safety of my pillow

my feet still abuzz with the day,

me, eyeing my alarm, my jailer.

What if I didn't turn the clocks ahead?

What’s the worst that could happen?

Does anything important depend on

my being aligned with a flat-faced thing

which couldn’t care less about me?

It’s true my employer would frown

on my tardiness and administrative

appointments would be hard to keep.

I may no longer be invited to family

functions with defined shelf lives

and paper mâché agendas to manage.

These would hardly be bad things,

I think to myself as I extend my hand,

click the hour button once, reluctantly

picking up the line at my feet with

both limp hands, awaiting the pistol,

of another day, though I’d rather just greet

the other runners here with a cold drink

and a soft chair for their tired bones

when they lap me again six months from now. 

Weight

All I need is a little time
an hour for this
two for that
at least half a day
for the dusty pile
on the desk
on the floor
behind the door
leading to other
piles I can't recall
couldn't say.


Just one more pile
then I'll rest
then I'll sleep
knees locked straight
still bearing weight
dreaming dreams
of piles neck deep
of piles no peep
or thought
will seep.