talking to her
in the car
a face in the stereo

vise-like grip,
I finally meet
her father

morning jog
carefully evading
the ant hill

lock-down
police sirens ablaze
this is home

dead flowers
outnumber their
surviving brothers

cardboard fisherman
driving in a parking lot
flash

a light breeze flowing
over the unmoved water
of a docile creek

september wind
in my hair
smell of harvest

the reflecting streetlight
glistens
in the puddle

homecoming
more baggage
than I remembered

pumpkin patch
hidden among hay bales
her crooked smile

making geometry
from the next room
she asks if cows lay eggs

on the back patio
ignoring my busy neighbors
late morning snooze

tree frogs
whisper through my window,
autumn night.

shirtless
she plays
his marimba

sticky fingers
with a lemon pie smile
the tickle monster

rising smoke
she grills
his meat

the patch of green grass
grows best along the edge
of your grave

The Beatles in black and white
on the wall
Ringo looking off to the side.

the overgrown bridge
I tread lightly
through my childhood

morning after
gently washing away
his scent

men’s restroom
listening to small talk
from a stall

fish playing
Peek-A-Boo
ripples in the pond

zen garden
brush aside
dead cigarettes

sudden downpour
all the poets
write faster

twilight walk
gently linking arms
with mom