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.

the squadron commander

when he sat still
he was as unintimidating
as a marionette:
long arms and legs,
a length of nose
that looked
like a caricature,
black eyes still.

but when he began to move,
his hands pointing
or on his hips;

but more importantly
when he began to speak

his physical appearance
melted away
in the blur of his booming voice.

you saw how his subordinates,
officers and sergeants alike
reacted
to his Machiavellian philosophy
that it was better
to be feared than loved.

it was years before I realized
that he had been passed over
for promotion.
he was gone as was I,
as was everyone -
the natural flow of the Army -
the unit stays, the men move on.

when he smiled
and said a kind word,
it meant something.
young men put these smiles
in their wallets
and brought them out
over beer like pictures
of girlfriends back home.

Rosemary

At sunset on my porch,
I pinch a twig of rosemary
between my thumb and forefinger
and smell the swelling sweetness
of its aroma
even before I lift it to my nose.

It brings me back to

years ago
out on the Dona Ana range
sitting in my HUMWV.
The desert burned with the heat
of engines and summer.
The setting sun called forth the colors
of the mountains that lay hidden
during the ordinary hours.
The rosemary grew wild in bushes.
Abrams tanks roared and clattered past
indisriminately grinding sprigs into the sand.
As they went down,
they blessed the dry air with flavor,
cancelling some of the sickly smell
of burning jet fuel.

And many years later,
the sun just above the horizon,
next to the barbecue
was a pot with a healthy plant
growing, cared for.
I, fingering a few leaves
like today, listened
as an old Army buddy
recited a litany of trials and gratitudes
of a year of surgery
and chemotherapy for his son.
"It was hard," he understated.

"Smell this," I said.
"Do you remember Dona Ana?"

In Front of the Storm

the air is full of contradictions:
pregnant with heat,
penetrated by a cool breeze;
darkening brightness, despite
the bruised clouds
and patches of sun.

the other cafe customers
at the sidewalk tables
avoid commenting
on the coming tumult.
we deny the inevitable
by resolutely sipping
and chewing,

but our feet are not tangled
in the chairs' legs
as they might have been.