Convertible

At first the driver seems to be jerking her head
as if shaking off a bee
but then I see the rhythm in her movements
and catch a corner of her smile
as she bounces her head in the direction
of her passenger.

She infects him
and his head begins to bob
in time with hers.

I can't help it -
I switch off the news and
roll down my window
to try to catch a bit
of what they are listening to.
It's then that the light changes
and we all begin to pull away.

From a lane over, I follow
the little red car.
At the next light, I am along side them.
I hear a song from my youth
that makes me want to dance.

I throw open my door
and like Daisy Duke,
I jump into the front seat
of the convertible,
landing with TV precision
between the man and the woman.
They are, of course,
unsurprised.

I put my arms around them both
and as the light changes,
we drive on together,
heads bobbing,
friends for so long.

We roll down this length of road
collecting more passengers at each stop light
like a clown car.
Each of us hears the song of our youth,
each of us has been friends for so long.
It is never crowded
as long as the music keeps playing
and the wind keeps blowing.

The Second Time Around

The weight of being Hindu,
and a snail,
is so much heavier
the second time around.

The subtleties of enlightened snailness
are much deeper
than those of humanness.
The choices are so few,
one must constantly be attuned
to the earth and sky,
the temperature and the humidity.
There is no room for error,
no one wants to spend another life
exploring grassness,
even if for a summer.

Chickens at the Bronx Zoo

You might think
just because a kid grows up
in public housing
that he never saw a chicken.

But he heard the rooster
crow at dawn
in the next apartment
where Mr. Perez
had ripped out the cabinet doors
and replaced them with wire
and the family kept chickens
in the kitchen where other families
kept their plates
and cereal boxes.

Sometimes he would hear crowing at midnight
through the plaster walls
when Mr. Perez and his brothers
would stumble in and flip on the lights,
all the while
singing songs in Spanish
about Puerto Rican independence
and women sweet like cane.

It wasn't until they filled
the porcelain tub with coals
and were slow smoking
a pig in the bathroom
that the chickens and
the salsa music
finally disappeared
into the glare
of blue lights and sirens.

The tiger is in a shoebox jungle.
The monkeys climb in a forest
of three trees.
But there is no salsa music
at the Bronx Zoo.
No sweet smell of plantains
frying in the evening
floating up from the cages,
no colorful flags
waving from the golf carts
that scurry between exhibits.
How does one understand chickens
when they are so far removed
from their natural element?

A Performance of Handell's Messiah by the Leesville Community Choir (published in Moondrenched Fables)

In this little chapel far from any city
their voices rise and fall
with remarkable song:
altos snatch the lead from tenors
while sapranos and basses
lunge musically from the sidelines.

There are twentyfour of them
in simple black and white.
The fact that in some cases
the cut is finer
is apparent even
from ten pews back.

Later some of them
will climb into pick ups
with gun racks and fishing poles
to lumber down dirt roads
back to trailer homes.

We do not ask how we came to be here,
on the stage or in the audience -
it all seems so arbitrary -
because tonight they raise
all of us up
to be something
so much more exquisite.

New House

I awaken to the tattering sounds
of rain -
hopeful the day will begin
grey and slow -
breathing the moisture
through my mouth.
Only to realize
it is the ceiling fan's whir
and the casual rattle of the pull-chain.

Angry at the kilowatt hours
and the price
of it all -
off I go into the harsh brightness.

Getting to know a house
begins with sounds
like the feel of a handshake,
but the shower
is a wrapping of arms
around your body.

A Priori

You have to know
Beautiful

to inhale crisp crystal air,

to roll plums and smoke and leather
in a glass of wine.

Fire and Time

Sweet potatoes in the grill basket
tonight
chopped into chips.

I always buy too many potatoes -
sweet or otherwise -
a desire for plenty
that outweighs all other thoughts.

As the pile on the cutting board
grows
I know my character flaw
has once again manifested itself.
Sweet potatoes sliced and stacked
are like stock market crashes -
you know they will come
you just don't know when.
You can only hope
to be dining at someone else's house
that night.

It's never as bad as it looks -
fire and time reduce the calamity by half.
The sheer volume of roots
dissipates -
gives up the ghost of water wholly.

So of course now I must add
the plantain I had hidden
at the bottom of the grocery bag.
I joyfully slice that manly fruit
on the same cutting board
and on to the flame it goes -
fruit of the earth and the sky.

I think about fire and time
as I raise creamsicle colored
forkfulls to my mouth -

fire and time burn away
all that is unnecessary -

Fire and Time leave only
the darkened, sweet memory.

for Karol Wojtyla

A man who renames himself
uniquely understands the Logos.

We last spoke Karol’s name
26 years ago
when he went to stand with Peter
(once Simon),
then watched in awe
as the words flowed through his mouth
berating walls
and salving wounds –
some new, some ancient.

In nine days the Conclave –
but today
they announce the Doors of Heaven
have been opened
to a man once again known
as Karol.

(originally written Apr 2005 in memory of Pope John Paul II)

At The Cross Roads

We let the sloping exit ramp
take us up and off the highway
letting the car slow
under its own weight.
The station is desolate,
the price absurd - but
this is Connecticut -
a transition between worlds.

The attendant has a crew cut
and a neat shirt.
It is only when he steps
from behind the register
that we see the tatoos
that dance up his arms.
He does not smile.

Another family comes in -
a dad and two little girls
dressed for the beach,
they tow a boat behind
their SUV.

A young man leaves
his dented station wagon
at the pump
and swaggers through the doors.
He wears a wife beater,
his arms lean with youth.
His pants sag,
sinched with a belt
around his buttocks.
He does smile and asks us
if we know how to get to
Manchester?

As we pull away
from the barren strip the station
stands on,
I wonder if it closes at night.
I wonder if the attendant will look
out the window at the dimming light
as cars come and go.
I wonder if he will shut out the lights
and lock the doors at some point,
or if the relief will come
sliding up in the dark
some time long after the moon has risen
and the streetlamps have begun to hum.
I wonder what his car's tires will sound like
as he presses gently on the accelerator,
as they lift and fall
over the cracked and buckling black top
heaved by the frost
that will come again and again.

Two Roads Converge

at my destination.

Tonight I choose
the slower road,

the one with the stoplights
that make you pause
with strangers in front
and behind.
You almost have to consider
the strip malls
and side walks
and street signs.

Tonight I choose the one
with the lower speed limits
and the one
where the cop waits
just below the crest of that hill.

The other is just as fair:
longer, smoother arc;
speed limit that gets you there
fast, but takes you farther.
This other where you can fade
into the music,
or the chatter on your radio.

Tonight
I choose the slower road
and turn off the iPod,
turn off the air conditioner,
roll down the windows
and try

to breathe.