Three Poems

By - Nov 8, 2017


I am sitting in a café with my right hand up to my face.
My hand smells like fresh laundry.
I watch a muffin go by.  A baby swats
with his fist, dumping a lemonade.
I have a hand to my face and it smells like fresh laundry.
Someone’s grandma is covered in new green-blue tattoos.
There is the sadness of unwed despots,
the chromed anger of the espresso nozzle,
a man with what looks like potatoes in his pants—
one in the front and one in the back.
People are squirting Sriracha onto everything.
People, squirting Sriracha onto everything.



H E I M L I C H ’ S   B E A G L E S

Heimlich (of maneuver)
and his beagles.
Die Beagles von Heimlich.
Seine Manöver mit/auf Beagles.
Sein besonderer Weg
mit ihnen.



T H E   B O D Y   B U I L D E R

The body guards
guarding the body
of the body builder
waited out front
in recently washed
grand piano black

He drove them
mad, taking fifty
minutes to pick out
a tea cup.  Holding
one, staring at it,
air sipping; holding
another, in different
light, air sipping,
cocking his head.