Ode to the Third Stall

O grey cubicle, neutral walls enfolding,
swinging wooden door unoccupied!
Neglected, your paper supply lingers, that
rolling dispenser hanging loosely from the wall.
You stand at such a perfect distance:
no first stall, vomiter's release,
no favored second child,
but still no unwanted fourth, that no-man's land
beyond recall.

O blank space, empty cell!
Cloistered my tears are thrown in muffled accord
upon calm taupe tiles,
peeled as paint in that dingy space.

Third stall, you are sanctuary, you are hope!
Your bespattered throne stands enshrined, ignored,
for how the flush throws water upon the seat:
distasteful! And so avoided,
rejected!
Thus you are mine, and truly
I am yours.

Metaphor

Crashing a sled we barely survived
we lay in the snow, laughed for a while.
When we stood up, you were my smile:
the best moment I can remember.

You’re my standing up after falling down,
up in the air, spinning around.
You’re buckwheat pancakes at 2 am,
a handmade scarf in winter.

When I’m living far away
I know you’re thinking of me,
You’re all the ginger candy ever,
plus the oolong in my tea.

You’re the four-note bass line
of a real catchy tune,
you’re the now and the next
and sometimes the soon.

You’re clever lyrics and dry socks,
my library card and mix cd,
you are my only dorm room key
with a really spiffy lanyard.

three little words

Why must we say with words
what can never be explained with words?
Others may say it better:
but you are home to me.

Just thinking of your laugh
is enough to make me start to laugh,
and I sing the songs you write
when I'm walking alone.

When I misquote Shakespeare
- I'm forever misquoting Shakespeare -
you always know the next line
it is the lark, my love!

Why must we be profound
always defining what we have found?
Can't really say it better:
yes, you are home to me.

Twenty Minutes in Sydney

This city is white
as if it had not been built on brown bones,
as if civilization had sprung easily from beneath Cook’s colonial collar
to flourish here instantly on the coast,
over the ochre and blue-green shore.
Now it bustles sunburn and silk ties,
epilipetic with traffic and mirrored sky-scratchers.
No one looks up or down.

There is no busker’s hope, no grit along the harbor,
no homeless hunger sleeping beneath the snowless sky,
only this proud commute,
urgent, helpless against the sea.
Where are the starving poets,
the stink of dreams unfurled in this adolescent town?
Where was Sydney when the Beats were dying?

The city wants the light, it wants the song
of more ancient bricks over more ancient bones.
The gold rush is gone,
but it needs to believe it’s own postcard,
knowing that no one suffers
like they suffer up north.

Australia

Steady driver, left-hand lane:
for three months we have been unfurling wings,
finding new coordinates,
trying not to mind missing midwest mornings in the snow.

She is the familiar voice
when Orion falls upside down
and the words of strangers burr and buckle,
sprawl and crackle at these new latitudes.

Finally we fold the maps away and drive,
missing turns, tongues burned
on morning diesel made hot to beat the rain.
Knees bent we dream against the dash,
second gear leaning up a hill,
pushing the pacific rim with the radio on scan:
bleary songs at the edge of the world.

One night beneath the gum trees
she shows the Magellan cloud
that white freckle just beyond the milky way:
she is the closest solar system to where I stand.
The southern sun browns constellations on our shoulders
as if somehow
we might learn to navigate our way back home.

Brand New

hey, he says, want to go to Perkins?
It is so late and I am a caged lion pacing the confines of my room.
i don't know i'm a little depressed I say, stuck.
He doesn't ask why just says
so are we, see you in five.

We go. There is snow on the ground dirty with grey ice,
the seats are cold, no words are spoken
as I climb into the back for a long drive to the middle of nowhere,
but we go,
coats bundled, breath harsh we are weighted
by this town and the thoughts we won't discuss
maybe not ever beneath these stars.

The wheels shear the pavement and cross white lines,
we are mute as music whispers from breaking speakers,
When we hit the edge of town, plunge into darkness,
the song begins to scream - we are thrown
rattled back and jolted up and we scream too,
mouths grim and bare.
The car flies and we are open, alone in the noise.

We go and leave the yellow lights behind.

The town is swallowed by midnight,
we are swallowed
together
by sound and the bass revving engine,
we could break down any second
but now we are singing straight ahead into the road
now
we are going
now
we are not gone.
We go,
and have left and are not the same.

Screaming fades to laughter, unpounded,
hands unclench and words begin.
We strain our eyes at deer-stained ditches
and soar, forgetful.
We will not hit the brakes but drive
as long as the cd plays,
hoping this time maybe it will not
stop.