haunted

a steel and concrete skeleton
rises in the nearby field
wearing a partial shroud
of weathered plastic sheeting
ripped and torn but shielding still
the men whose silhouettes
I see pacing the hollow spaces
where one day desks, chairs,
cubicles, water coolers, bathrooms,
and coffee makers, will reside,
haunted by dead-eyed office workers
eking out a living in eight hour
increments, tapping out emails,
answering phone calls, marking up
copy and products, turning bricks
to gold, while today's dark figures
turn another weed-filled empty lot
that once grew grain or housed cattle,
into another steel-boned skeleton

30 days 30 poems day 16: tumbleweeds

tumbleweeds barrelling over the lawn.
heading wherever, the wind blows them on
catching on tree branches, sinking in ponds—
tumbleweeds just don't know where they belong.

tumbleweeds tumbling without any sense.
look at them pile up along every fence
soldiers, invaders killed on the offense—
tumbleweeds, some obstacles won't relent.

30 days 30 poems day 7: hair clippers

the 7-, 8-, 9-year-old who cringed from clippers
now inflicts them upon himself, upon his face,
staring himself down with steely eye to trim
beard, neck, mustache without a trace
of the dread that once caused him to shrink,
to shriek, and make a scene each time
his mother applied the machine.

Another childhood fear forsaken
as more grown-up fears awaken

30 days 30 poems, day 5: seven years later

seven years later and the loan's paid off

what else do I have to show

robe in the closet

degree on display

a couple poems published

and filed away

half-finished stories

languishing in endless

rewrites and revisions

steady paycheck

growing family

house

windows

car trouble

same bad habits

same old fears

same tenuous desire

seven years later and the loan's paid off

what comes next

30 days 30 poems--day 2

Up here I can hear the power lines

Crackle and buzz above my head,

Suspended beneath heavy dark clouds

By long wooden stakes stuck into this barren

Scrubby foothill. An unkempt dirt road

Littered with rocks and flanked by brush

Follows parallel columns of these rudimentary behemoths

Bearing lightning on their black strands.

These roads were made for high clearance vehicles

and dirt bikes, not for lunch break hikers

in new work shoes, but I'll plod on

During this stolen hour, watching the clock

And the bushes for the first waking rattlesnakes,

Knowing that I'm not breaking new ground

But still hoping for some hint of discovery

Among the shaggy, sparse fringes of civilization.

30 days 30 poems—day 1: stone throat

down the long stone throat
red sparks glimmer
static against yellow pools
flashing lines
all floating down, down,
down. There is no end.
Appetite insatiable.
To either side, sprawling lots
filled with fodder
for these roads. Black
windshields and white hoods
dully throw back pale lights
as they wait their turn,
their odometers reading 0.

In the back, my daughter
rocked to uneasy sleep by steady
speeding stillness, loosely
clenches her fists.
Are we going slow or fast?
She asked.
Fast. Much too fast.

fourth of six

Fourth of six, second of two,
What are we going to do with you?

"Sorry" she said
as her siblings piled out
the open car doors
in the drop off lane.
The line behind
idled impatiently
while her hand scoured
the backseat crevices
for the dollar coin
she had misplaced
on the short ride to school.

"I gave her the dollar coin"
her mother remarked
on our way out the door
"for obvious reasons"
which meant one coin
would be easier to keep track of
than four quarters.

Fourth of six, second of two,
What are we going to do with you?

"What a waste"
She whimpered,
still searching unsuccessfully.
I twisted in my seat
looking at her through
sunglasses that obscured my eyes
but not my stern expression,
as I removed a dollar bill
from my wallet.
"Don't lose this" I almost said
but didn't, opting instead
for a simple "Here"
followed by the practiced
rapid-fire litany of parting phrases
as she bumped her way
out the open door
"have a good day"
"be good"
"see you after school"
"I love you"
"don't forget your backpack"
"close the door"

What a waste.
The words, the defeated tone,
rang in my ears
as I drove away.
It seemed an odd
observation for a first-grader
to make over a lost dollar
and as the words reechoed

I heard them anew

presaging the preteen

berating herself for
each simple mistake
pointing the words inward
Unforgiving, unflinching.

Fourth of six, second of two,
What are we going to do with you?