Happy Hour

Cover your mouth: it’s
impolite to laugh at no-
thing particular.

It’s all-too human.
And it separates one no-
thing from another.

That graceful young thing
over there breaking up? Makes
life out to be gift.

Stunned by World’s Worth

In the white aza-
lea the robin calls to-
night as I pass by.

Azalea brighter
than the moon over the bay,
Robin still brighter.

As I step in and
out of these shadows I doubt
my deeper values.


Jocund Spring day in
New England—-the white, the blue,
sense of abstractions.

The people restless,
tyranny the new option.
The Gaspee still burns.

The book in my hand
like whitecaps as I doze in
fear of what’s ahead.


Poppies glow in foot-
hill roadsides and desert views
of childhood picnics.

Memorial Day.
Mother all smiles in the heat,
her wide-brimmed straw hat.

That distant look in
Dad’s eyes. South Pacific gore.
Flesh of the poppies.

The Song

When you could no long-
er walk you’d play Dusty Spring-
field and sing along

beside yourself. Blue-
eyed blues. And you couldn’t sing.
Now years later in

a crowded room that
sound will pierce the difference
as for the last time.

I alone hear it.
People look startled when I
start and sing along.

Our Space

The poverty of
apple blossoms blowing a-
cross the potholed road

as much a part of
Spring as the cars of tourists
invading our space.

ask no more questions. It’s clear
whose side God is on.

Funny Little Fly

The first fly of Spring
makes its way up the window.
Transparency sucks.

I used to want to
get the last laugh; my poems
had these trick endings.

Nothing was really
funny. Now I catch the fly
in my hand and o-

pen the window. Let
go like that it disappears
into its own life.