Milk Can
 
As if she’s heard intruders at the door,
but would not trust the lock to keep her safe,
should they come bursting in – who knows what for –
the widow, clutching at her flannel robe,  
takes hold of an old milk can – like her kitchen,
a handy catch-all; this object that cannot
object to her unladylike abuse –    
tilts it back and slowly wheels it sideways
(as she once saw her husband deal with barrels),
steers it through a narrow passageway,
between a closet, some unforgiving stairs,
clear to the entry, where she lets it go,
wedges it tight against the door, says, There! –
as if she’s finally got that big old house,
with all its rooms, secured against desire;
as if, by blocking doors, she’s doused the fire.
 
originally printed in The Formalist.

MAKING
       mmmmmMaki          Making Charcoal
 
I hear those rubber boots galumph through snow;
My father makes his way back toward the kilns.
Drawn to the beat of old ways, like Thoreau,
I hear those rubber boots galumph through snow.
Charcoal is all he knew, at war’s end; so
My mother worked – wood’s all he had to kill.
I hear those rubber boots galumph through snow;
My father makes his way back toward the kilns.

originally printed in Iambs & Trochees.

No Need to Call a Taxi
 
 
When it’s time, he stops at your table
and you find you’re finished – time to settle.
 
Whom you know, on this night, is of no
consequence, nor the size of your tip.
 
Time, now, for the bussing of tables,
and time for weary waiters to end   

the evening’s languor, to usher us
through the door. No use in unctuous
 
farewells or haggling. They don’t take checks.
No credit cards accepted. It’s

strictly cash – and you ought to know.   
Time to settle. Time to go.

Published in Skipping Stones
(Pudding House Press chapbook 2008)