passion poem

  ~ for pb who asked

charcoal on newsprint
a freshly sharpened pencil
arches 88

today there is no poetry in the trainscape

dirt is dirt

the slanting sunlight on swiftly passing trees sings no melody

a field of beached pines swamped in bullrushes are no eloquent statement of place and time and passage

just dead trees with their feet mucking about in the water

the view from seat 6A populates and depopulates with people or pines, sumac shrubbery or streets at level crossings

no poetry. all is what it is

obtaining no meta

on the side road, there is a stop ahead.

ether

there is nothing like

sending you several texts

and nothing comes back

til death do us part

sleeping in, toes up

who will be the first to be

wearing a toe tag

may day

every mom molecule

aching to embrace

my fully grown child

(actually composed on May 1st)

oblivion

yesterday

a mangy squirrel

didn't mind human proximity

scrounging food from a curbside bag

today

the mangy squirrel is still in the street

not yet flattened by the wheels

of too many people

traffic slows down
a desultory cat crosses
Ossington