THE WORLD TRAVELER COMES HOME

How long has it been
since I passed through
those dark villages of my youth?
Those quaint, one stoplight metropolis’
lined with antique shops, well manicured lawns
and buggered old men on church stoops,
smoking away the day.

In Spring, people were liable
to break into spontaneous dance
just because the lilacs had spread their blossoms
and the fresh scent of green rain
that permeated the air.

Unfamiliar accents could be heard
echoing all up and down the town square
and these sleepy, Midwestern towns
were suddenly as cosmopolitan
as a European city.

Going home, I become lost
in the accentuated vowels
and clipped, nasal voices,
till I no longer know
if I am still in the Midwest,
the East or the South
or roaming the streets
of some tiny, Italian market.

published in The Storyteller



THE WOMAN OUTSIDE MY WINDOW

I know I’m not dreaming because my feet
Move me from bed to window.
A woman stands below
With a skull and crossbones

Tattoo on her eyes. Her mouth opens
Releasing a cloud of pale, gossamer moths,
Her words rise like silent balloons
And sail off harmlessly into the gloom.

She’s come with accusations.
I pretend to be a silhouette
Trapped in the window shade.
I am a lamp, a mannequin caught in the moonlight.

I can remain motionless for hours.
I’ve had years of practice as a statue.
Her eyes set fire to the house around me.
I am a stone.

She fades with the breaking dawn.
The light drowns the flames.
I return to bed and dream I’m awake.
A woman stands outside, below my window.



NIGHTFLYING

Crossing the sky at 500 miles per hour,
my disembodied head floats along at 30,000 feet.

The cities are dimly lighted tombs
passing by at a million lives a minute.

The cabin is nearly empty, quiet as a mortuary.
The only sounds are a few stifled coughs
and the hum of the engines
as we chase the night westward.

A woman, two seats up, reads a book.
A seasoned flyer, she displays no alarm
at the sudden turbulence.

A fat man grips the armrest, his knuckles
as white and sweaty as his face.

The pilot’s cold, detached voice
tells us we’ll be landing shortly.

The ghost in the window keeps pace
as we descend the icy reaches of Heaven.

Looking back over the miles,
the distance traveled,
trying to reclaim the vast, dystopic landscape.