Conversation on Route 23 North, November 1987
He leans on me like a rusted bicycle,
Tires flat against the weathered south wall
Of a lonesome, abandoned barn
Slumps into the rear seat of his old Ford
Station wagon, no longer capable of riding
Shotgun in the only car he has ever known
Images reflected in the rear view mirror
Are not always larger than they may appear
A small figure, gaunt .thin .weak
The bluff has lost its long battle against
A sea that is unrelenting and unforgiving
There is no apprentice program
No manual with appendix, numbered illustrations
That touches on the passage of responsibility
I did not recognize the need for silence
My feeble attempt to shoot the breeze
Was more for my own benefit than it was for his
I understand that now
I spoke of realty, the acres we had our eyes on
Now, his eyes were tired and trapped
Locked in that hollow gaze of regret
There, in a whisper, close to tears
I strain to listen
There has been a change of plans
For Camilla, May She Never Know
Solitary amber rays
Burn back early morning fog
Only to reveal the
Cracked orange trash pail so
Carelessly tossed to the gutter
Discarded like the small
Dented tin of cat food
That lies beside it
Silently
The tin is placed in his pocket
The pail is returned to
The elderly
Forlorn neighbor
So she will not know
Summer of Love
She stood at the mouth of
A gravel driveway
An oversized flannel
Shirt unbuttoned just enough
We did not speak
You were always the
Mature one, I
Hopelessly naive
This belongs to you
With the hope that
You may remember
Selling Water by the River
Lobbyists dressed in full
Regalia their gold stars shine
Through the cigar smoke haze
That oozes from heads that bicker
With balderdash and ballyhoo
Ramped up rhetoric
Destined to stoke the flames
Red on this grand barn fire
As men of good fortune
Find themselves labeled somewhere
Between patriots and heretics
By carnival barkers who continue
Selling water by the river
