DANDELIONS
 
The other day, I bounced
between the blue talons that spear
marshmallow floats in the sky
and the lawn, full of green soldiers
marching in thick patches across
the yard toward the intrusive dandelions
that set up camp in random locales.
From mower to my knees
and back up again I aided the infantry
until I became enraptured by one frail
yellow weed that suddenly sent me
into a past when I sat alone on a stone
at the crest of a hill, where in its tiny valley
hovered the creeping carcass of poison ivy
that devoured our summertime baseballs,
around which bordered a flock of dandelions,
dandelions I so desperately desired
to pick for my mother.
I had never seen anyone with a bouquet
of dandelions, nor ever noticed any on a corsage
but that did little to dissuade me
from gathering a bunch.
She gave me life, I wanted to give her dandelions.
She bandaged my wounds, tended numerous
nose bleeds, I gave her dandelions.
She gave me medicine, meals, clothing,
a home and an education,
I gave her dandelions.
Here is a football, basketball, ice skates,
go play, I said, here are some pretty flowers
I found in the woods, never realizing
my debt impossible to ever fulfill.
That gift I will give her now,
though when she took that wilting
fistful of weeds from my grasp,
I was as convinced as any nine year old,
that she owed me.
 
 
 
MUSTANG MUSCLE
 
Life was never measured in years
back in those days.
Time passed in miles per gallon or
the odometer reading 
which gauged the distance to your girlfriend’s house
a certain number of miles away. 
Your best buddy might use his car
on trips to the beach because
it did better on gas.
That used ‘69 Mach I Mustang, my wheels for years,
a loser for mileage, though it sure could attract
the girls, poised defiantly in
red rust garb defined with black detail,
proud gold insignia stretching broadside,
oversized tires, custom magnesium rims
and temperamental black vinyl bucket seats
alternately produced pounds of static electricity or sweat
depending on the season
helped me lose my virginity in the cramped back
not even fit for sitting. Even did a
doober or two while she guzzled petrol
at the stop light. Could hear
her coming a mile down the road,
351 engine roared proudly to announce
her brawny entrance with shark like features
shearing the wind before anyone
ever considered drag coefficient.
The spoilers deflected unnecessary impedance
as the hood scoop proudly displayed Mustang machismo.
She lived a long life
almost 130,000 miles, not bad for a Ford,
finally succumbing to cancer which devoured her shell
and chassis providing an ignominious conclusion
for a true muscle car back when time
was measured in miles per gallon
or the distance to your girlfriend’s house.
 
HEALING
 
The morning sky imagined
a glow of pink and purple
before the sun arrived,
before the horizon
imagined itself a blond,
like the smiling nurse
who helped me out to the car,
wearing colorful clips in her hair,
clips which stole the sunlight’s gleam.
On the sidewalk,
I stared at the asphalt,
it held a puddle of rainwater,
I imagined it a cocktail.
Over the sunlight,
a dense cloud dissipated,
creating a halo
around the red brick of the building
I earlier imagined
would be my last to enter.
I had never noticed sunlight ripple
in a street puddle before.
The ride home was uncomfortable
yet joyous.
The road imagined a parade,
cars lined up dutifully,
and the morning, so conscious of itself,
imagined a celebration of light
forever beaming, forever replete.
When you touched my hand,
it was as if
you imagined I needed your touch,
as if  I imagined your touch
exactly at that time
to realize the morning.   
 
SYNERGIST
 
All day
I’ve listened to the song
of a single cardinal
 
ripple stillness
just outside my office window. 
An opera in red tux
 
his throat is a spring
stretching an aria
through the cluttered house
 
of sound, awakening memories
of events since past.
The timbre enlivens my heart.
 
I can almost touch
what once was
as it floats between
 
song and wind.  An inflection
so crisp, that I’m convinced
the cardinal sings for more
 
than to merely texture
the commotion.  His tune
incites another gift.
 
He performs daily,
tireless and without hoarseness,
to make sad hearts flutter.