riding the subway in Boston

Moving slow, side to side
then surging forward
in a rush.
My  head is briefly cradled against a
random man's shoulder,
his arm, stretched forward,
draped just above my own,
a false intimacy forced by
proximity and crush.
I face a seated woman
whose roots are reverting to
their origins.
Porter Square.
The elderly man next to her
rises and wades his way
to the exit leaving behind a newspaper
in his wake.
She pats the vacated seat beside her,
beckoning the man behind me.
Is he the one who left the
finger shaped bruises on her arm,
stark gray blue against her pale skin?
He takes the seat and now
it is her head cradled on his shoulder.
Harvard Square.
I gather my observations and assumptions
and exit the scene.

Whittled

Remembering my youth

when I towered above the shore

casting my shadow over

darting fish and

busy crawdads.

Some days, I’d bury my head

in the clouds and catch

raindrops, letting them

slip down and down and down.

Now I am old, whittled,

a fraction of what I was

resting on the shore

watching the sun pass

through the sky

and basking in

its warmth.

WHITTLED

Remembering my youth

when I towered above the shore

casting my shadow over

darting fish and

busy crawdads.

Some days, I’d bury my head

in the clouds and catch

raindrops, letting them

slip down and down and down.

Now I am old, whittled,

a fraction of what I was

resting on the shore

watching the sun pass

through the sky

and basking in

its warmth.

waiting

Turn the key and leave the room,
through recycled and refrigerated air
to the waiting room where
the waiting
begins.

Another woman joins me
tugging at the belt of her
elf sized robe. Carefully
we avoid eye contact
and pretend to read the
dog eared magazines
strewn across the table,
waiting for our turns
at the mammo machine.

Tuttle Dreams

Tuttle dreams

of climbing trees

and soaring with flights

of bumble bees,

stalking clouds and

shooting stars and

talking to the man from Mars.

But when he wakes

(and it’s not fair)

he’s on the ground, not

in the air.

He looks left and

then looks right

noticing it’s

Almost night.

He yawns and stretches

thinks, what the hell,

and pulls back

inside his shell.

Tuttle the turtle

nods off once more.

Being a turtle is

such a bore.