Travelogue


Six months can be measured in dark nights,
moments of desperate resolve, tanks of gas.
Three-quarters of a tank is necessary for
each trip to drug rehab.
With over two-hundred thousand
miles beneath her steel belted radials,
my faithful car stitches up the road between us.

On the way, I think how I would dance
on broken glass to help my son when
all I can do is buy him lunch.
We go to the fancy Italian place he likes
and sit across the linen. He reaches
for the menu. His hands shake.
If I wait patiently, he'll decide.
If I wait long enough-he'll talk .

His dark haired girl doesn't visit
but yesterday she sent an e-mail.
He's hoping they will at least be friends.
The pasta arrives. We don't
talk about her any more.

Heading back, all I want is to grab
a chunk of sky, pull it close, send it flying.

---

A Driven Sky


bears down like a bruise,
pushes green swells shoreward,
slants between drivers and chatter of radio.

Our minds reel of comings
and goings. Sky enters our thoughts,
sweeps us up into its presence. The road

curves and we fear tumbling
into a vastness of air, clouds, water.
Sky keeps pace-races ahead-meets

us around the bend-
where it folds our worry
and longing into a sudden possibility.

---

Ascension Day


On good days
it appears we are all ascending.
Our spouses,
beginning to complain about something or other,
pick up the soggy dish-sponge instead.
The mail arrives on time.
We look at our children's homework
and notice their spelling has improved.

The fog lifts.
An outline of a not distant island becomes clear.
We decide to forgo the second martini,
the last piece of chocolate cake.

There's a sweet lightness-
familiar yet surprisingly new.
Just when we thought newness
a thing of our past, it rises,
a pale balloon floating
toward air unable to sustain us.
Yet we turn our faces upward,
fixed on the trajectory of ascent,
as if our lives depended on it.

---

Conversation in the Course of a Long Marriage


What do you think of happiness?
(Here, there is an awkward pause.)
The wife chews lettuce, sips her wine.

It's a byproduct-
like French-milled soap from lard. You know,
get busy with something and suddenly,
for any number of small reasons,
you're happy.
Although realizing you're happymay not be the same thing as happiness.

It's not Christmas morning-but it may be.
It's not your birthday
but that someone
remembered.

Like the time, early in our relationship,
you got involved with that old friend
who turned up unexpectedly.
Remember her?

I was miserable
but happy to have finally been the one
who walked away.

Then you came back.

---

Was It Something I Said?


Two in the morning.
I try to remember why
I lost my temper.

The refrigerator makes its late night
whirr while you, deep in sleep,
seem to breathe contentedly along.

I feel the beginning
of a hangover.
Otherwise, all is well.

Time passes its stealthy way,
breathe tick breathe whirr
an hour slips by.

Three o'clock. Let's work
backward. Something I said.
Just before the light went out?

Something about someone
maybe you not taking

enough care.