remembering pregnancy 11/5/07

scarf. blues and greys wrapped now around my

neck because it's cold enough now. outside.

the baby is coming sooner now. soon

enough. right on time.

and the night sends its crickets to sing.

and she bathes herself warm and loose

in a low lamp light.

her belly an island.

the mother.

shoes. freshly cleaned and sitting just

outside the door. on the wooden porch.

and yet i don't feel on the outside.

or on the run.

my shoes are home.

my home is inside.

and. outside.

if only to feel the clack of the keys and watch these letters cross the screen like spilling paint, i stop here for a moment. the wind is stealing my attention and the fever begins.

letter to a worried friend

The Fourth of July, it's come and it's gone
and the only thing that has scorched your lawn
is the glare of the sun that starts after dawn
and moves through the day with its fiery brawn.

Your house is still standing, not burned to the ground
from rocket displays amidst the great sound
that rose from the darkness and burst all around
to delight all the children and scare the odd hound.

But i was ready and willing to toss in the ashes
an old A.C. unit between burnt window sashes
and handrail lumber that in the end only clashes
with rough cedar posts not burned down with matches.

And so on this day, the fifth of july,

let your mind be at peace and cast no nervous eye
to the South where your house didn't fry.