dirty window

dirt caked in swirling, smattering
patterns on the outside of the window pane
give this particular sunset over yellow
winter fields the look of a Van Gogh.
Catching the sun's rays, those particles
become part of the scene by partially
obscuring it, robbing it of depth, and presenting
it in a flat plane bordered on four sides
by the thick frame.

In this way, the unwashed window
shows real artistic sensibility:
filtering the raw, impossibly rich,
overwhelming, and overlooked
beauty of nature and rendering
it into something finite for the eye to appreciate.

honeycrisp

Poor, poor honeycrisp—
your tender skin's too soft
for the sticker's harsh adhesives.
It bruises and breaks
under my careful fingernails
as I pick around the sticker's
stubborn edges, making me
wince involuntarily. Peeling, rolling,
finally removing the encroaching
label, I uncover the smooth, shiny,
uninterrupted surface underneath
into which I can gladly sink my teeth.

compulsory reading

irresistible in its simplicity,
those mere black dots hold
all the compelling force
of a gun held to your head:

• Read it
• Or else

I guess that's why they call it
a bullet list.

winged gargoyle

Squatting like a stone gargoyle beside the pond
Watching bright fish lazily tailing through clear water,
the large bird mind or didn't see my slow approach,
snapping pictures as I stepped across the grass
until I drew opposite. Then, with a turn of its head
a casual sidestep, an unfurling of massive wings
it lifted off, flapping away with slow beats
toward the street where a delivery truck
braked hard to avoid the windshield-wide
wingspan, sparing the frazzled creature
in its search of a familiar refuge in this
ever-changing and unfriendly world.

contemplation on an egging

stretching and steaming on the porch
after this morning's run I spot
the discolored stain from where
an egg hit the side of the house
just to one side of the front door
so low that it almost hit the porch
instead. I remember finding the shell
that morning months ago, white and frail
on the concrete, a little empty cup
like the ones you find in the grass
discarded by the newly hatched
nestlings up above. But this one
didn't hatch, it smashed after
a short flight from the sidewalk
or maybe the street, launched
from a rolled down window
by who knows who, just some kid
like I used to be, but one a bit more
daring, more reckless, than me.
We did a poor job cleaning it
which is why it left a stain
a bleached spot in the brown
siding, a small amoeba with a tail,
a pale flower on a stem sprouting
up from the porch and blooming
there, just a few inches off the ground,
an object of contemplation year round
as I head to the front door and look down.

check your fluids

Washer fluid's low.
or so an amber-colored light
on the dash would have me believe
every time I brake
or head up or down a hill.
It's not the only thing running low,
though it's one of the few with
a warning light. One I don't
worry about ignoring. Not like
the red oil light which, weeks ago,
flashed just once, and had me out
checking the dipstick first thing
and dumping in two whole quarts
though I knew it was overdue
for a complete change.
At least some things I've learned
not to ignore, even if only to
postpone them.

There are others I'm still figuring out
without the aid of indicator lights
or maintenance minders, only
an internal urge, a back-of-mind
needling that won't go away
no matter how much I put it off
and neglect it. Somehow the
engine keeps on running,
keeps on purring,
keeps on whispering,
just begging to be fed.

short sighted

See, you never know how clearly anyone else can see. Take me for example, walking in with glasses in hand - changing out sunglasses for non, all while juggling access card, lunch bag, and a half dozen doors - maybe you assume that, because of the glasses in my hand I can't see a thing, that I'm just as likely to walk through a wall as a door, or greet the refrigerator. But no, sorry,I see fine really. Have gone weeks without my glasses (when they've been mislaid, or broken - I once lost a pair of glasses in the pocket of my Boy Scout uniform for upwards of three months!) and only wear them because my driver's license says I need to, and because I've grown accustomed to the sharper vision they afford.

It's just cartoon conditioning makes you think that without my glasses I'd be a buffoon, tripping over furniture and feeling around like a blind man. No, it seems that people who need it that badly wear contacts, which ironically lends them a false sense of sightedness. One day they show up in glasses and everyone says, "whoa, I didn't know you needed glasses!" When really, they're worse off than most of us regular glasses wearers who could honestly take 'em or leave 'em most days. But we're the ones that get the reputation for being blind, sightless buffoons, crippled by prescription-strength hardware perched on our noses and ears.

Is there anyone who DOESN'T wear corrective lenses of some kind anymore? I don't know why I assume that anyone does or doesn't these days. I guess it's just not the sort of thing you really think about - how well anyone else can really see. When it comes down to it, we all just see what we see and we learn how to make it work for us. Maybe it's a little fuzzier than what other people are used to, but how are you even supposed to know that?