At Apollo's

A Haircut,

I say.

The Hostess,

too old for her makeup,

says there will be

a five minute wait.

The Owner,

balding,

reads headlines

and sips espresso.

Scissor sports talk,

Big band aftershave.

The New Girl,

with hand on hip,

bops her shoulder

to the ba-da bap,

for attention.

The Pro,

seats high rollers

on a crimson throne;

the far end of the shop.

The Barber,

Julio,

says little past,

How do you want it?

Facing me away

from the mirror,

Julio begins.

I trust he knows

what is good.

Shaping appearance,

I must have faith.

I do not know

Julio’s tools.

I cannot see

as he does.

I was so self-sufficient.

A little more off of the top,

I say.

Her Timidity Sings

I heard my new favorite song tonight, the first that she'd ever written. Her fingers shook as they struck the first key. It was simple and it was honest. I told her I wouldn't watch her play, but halfway through I looked up. Her eyes were shut as she sang, her foot kept time. She mumbled through the words she didn't want me to hear...


(I wrote this over a year and a half ago and almost cried reading it over fresh tonight.)

Cookie Cutter

A little boy sits on the curb

outside of his house

smoking his father's cigar.

Because, more than anything,

he wants to grow up.

A Weekend in a Monsoon

Rain on this. Rain on me.

It's night and the fire outside dwindles.

Mud washes through the camp

And the wind carries the few

Remaining embers to the tent.

It howls louder.

Glowing remains catch and grow

Until it smiles and cackles

And warms the room around me.

My bed that I made,

The pillow for my head,

Light and transform

And engulf and laugh

And I drift to sleep in the warmth.

I am

As water runs down the sides of the sink in the next room, traveling across town and underneath cul-de-sacs filled with part-time workers, a boy vomits onto a book with empty pages. Hoping that his loss for words, for meaning, for purpose finds its place among the concrete sidewalks that bleed leaves that gardeners blow away once a week.

He lets his head clear and walks to his sink and tries to fathom how far the pipes stretch. How many contribute to the same pipeline? How many more vomit uncontrollably in their rooms? Do the pipes end?

They do.

They lead to the sea where schools of fish survive their freedom until they are caught, cleaned, cut and ready for purchase at the local supermarket.

He washes his face and he stares at his book.

The right words rarely come.

The garbage man regularly comes.

Fish for dinner tonight.