end of June —
a fly in what used to be
my daughter’s bedroom

shortest night —
I sleep on
her side of the bed

solstice —
my son’s
first tattoo

tuesday twitters

“hey baby,” she purred, unbuttoning her blouse, “this is no time to twitter.”
is it still the longest day of the year if it rains all day?
Jesus loves me so much I am going to hell without him
alas Madonna of the Wasps doesn’t recognize me
I’m not 100% certain but I think my doctor and I are engaged
urban birdwatchers of the world unite!
hours before the wedding a rat scurries across the hotel parking lot
two days before the wedding I startle awake speaking nonsense
on her cell phone the pout heard ’round the world
summer haze “it depends upon how you define ’single’” she says
late train I’m the drunk no one wants to sit next to
late night two twenty-somethings make out while the train passes by
sitting next to a pregnant woman I can’t finish my crossword puzzle
not sure who sneezed or why the hell i said “god bless you”
if I offer her my seat do I have to get up?
upwardly mobile commuter mouthing podcasted affirmations to nobody
feigning sleep so the beggar won’t get my last dime
another day at the legless shoe factory
trophy wife at his side he reads his Wall Street Journal
no for the thousandth time I don’t care what’s on your iPod
train running late a red squirrel falls out of the tree

in the waiting room
three new boxes
of latex gloves

alone on the shelf
a Father’s Day card
from the dog

June —
Daddy’s little girl
tosses the bouquet

late train —
I don’t respond
to “sir”

throbbing headache the conductor punches my ticket twice

a recruiter calls —
a murder of crows
on the high tension wire

six days (haiku)

six days before the wedding the empty bookshelves in her room

six days (prose)

six days before your wedding
it should have come as no surprise
to see the empty bookshelves in your room,
but it made me pause and think
about the rooms we call our own
and the shelves we fill with books, photos and trophies:
all celebrations of things past.
the empty shelf
is a celebration of your future.
fill it with the kinds of things
that will make your father proud.

Forever and Eternity

...not nearly as surreal
as it might have seemed
she said
“I always smell Eternity when you walk by.”
“Thank you,” I blushed,
“but it’s actually a designer knock-off:
almost the real thing for a fraction of the price.”
The ensuing silence told me
that I had made a horrible mistake.
She smiled, pivoted and disappeared.
Forever.

traffic snarled —
a throbbing
bass note

cloudless night —
I can’t believe
I’m giving her away

today's twittering

all this talk of global warming can’t keep me from shivering on a cold June night
pretending to fall asleep I ignore the smiling old man
an hour before the alarm sounds my daughter’s wedding dress hangs in the closet
crowded train I know the answer to 36 across
June an ambulance screams through the red light
picking the weed I missed a mosquito bites my neck
a week before the wedding my black Jeep dusted with pollen

frisbee head

when Mrs. Bitter decided to experiment with the flash on her new camera, the obvious response was to put a frisbee on my head.

overcast —
my son is too busy
to take my call

blue moon —
our neighbor’s lawn
goes to seed