Morning Commute
                    for Gianni

Sleepy boy in the passenger seat
my charge   my joy   my sidekick

oh look how the coyote considers
crossing the boulevard to the river

how at the cemetery gate
a wild turkey sneaks an exit

remember always the day of the heron
a Great Blue appearing in front of us

no one walking   no other cars
just ours heading over the hillcrest

and there it was   my god
a god!

so graceful   huge   slow to move
lifting up with fan wings

each the size of you   taking flight
across the outbound lane.

--Appeared, Fall 2013 Muddy River Poetry Review

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Tough Trek

What the ranger did was
lock up his little hut,
drive away, leave us
hiking, out whereabouts
unknown to anyone else,
we three in a foreign country.

Setting out there'd been no list
to add our names, only a sign
—you know the one--
about how you must Proceed
at Your Own Risk.

Absolutely alone to negotiate
the path on a ridge
in the rainforest, soft earth
underfoot, orbiting,
a volcanic lake below us,

we go climbing
into the clouds:
shaky legs, vertigo,
water bottles empty too soon,
and the color green
teasing us to rest.

We hear our hearts
beating as if they are outside
the body in the orchids
clinging to the trees. We
thump our way forward

through mist, rip-rap,
displaying the height of ignorance,
believing as gospel truth
the guidebook rating—this climb easy--
hey, a stroll in the park,
or a day at the beach.

Turning back we know
will be as difficult as keeping on;
giving up, simply out of the question.

I hug the ground on the down slope
though perfectly fine going up hill.
It is my way to clutch at roots.

Are the orchids really beating
and is the air thick with wings?

--Appeared in Levure Litteraire: levurelitteraire.com, Accueil (number) 3

---

Fashion Sense

The students in this class, all women
and only the one from Poland might be
called stylish. She paints her fingernails
a color she says is called:
I'm Not Really a Waitress.

At Christmas she buys the teacher a gift,
a wool challis scarf, and another day
remarks when entering the classroom:
You look good wearing black.

But even she is sensible, once
bringing to class a loaf of Polish Rye,
the lesson not even about bread.

Next to her, an elegant Haitian woman
keeps trying to hold onto a word.
She is a natural beauty, yet her manner
is not. She has admitted to everyone,
she loves the movies.

Examine, too, her grace
and her lovely French accent,
nearly Parisienne. And do not
ignore the obvious, that even
a white uniform looks good on her.

Who would be surprised to know
that now, learning English
my Chinese students want words
to describe bolts of cloth they remember
nudging past a needle at the sewing bench,
stitching a collar, a hem, an ornamentation?

Even without my help they know
the English words: wool, cotton, rayon, linen.
Interested in fabric, style, craft

these tailors, dress and lace makers,
weavers and knitters
who have embroidered flowers on silk,
what they want from this lesson is something
more subtle, asking for how to say
spots, lines, squares.
I give them new words:
stripe, plaid, polka dot,
the more delicate dotted Swiss.

I cut up old clothes and bring swatches,
showing them herringbone,
hound's-tooth, black watch, and glen plaid.
They admire my hair,
curly on a humid day, but I love
theirs, straight and silky in any weather.
They want to know if I have
a permanent wave.
​
--Appeared in Levure Litteraire: levurelitteraire.com, Accueil (number) 3