Blink (Trapped in a Desert Town)

I have folded the fall leaves
into my eyelids
and blinked.

I have opened them
to see gold and red
and green disappear,
beige and red rocks
come to focus;
hard surfaces wedge
themselves into my fingernail beds
day after day as I blink. Hoping
for the green and red and gold
to project past  my past.

I have been here too long.
So long
that the beige is a curtain always drawn
closed around my throat.
So long
that the red rocks have gathered ‘round my limbs
to crush,
to make even the blinking hurt,
dry with red dust;

and the memories of fall leaves
and a northern breeze drift
like a snow bank on city street,
pause at my eyelids, paw to get out.

Blink and the fall leaves
follow dreams,
fold into my eyelids
and settle gracefully
on glassy lake fronts.

Waiting Train

He waits for a train
that clicks and clacks
years from here. But still
he waits each morning.
His cheeks are a pale wrinkly white
and his eyes gloss over with blue;
as though the rail holds a lover
lost to war.

I asked one day what he waits for.
He said that his sweetheart is on that train.
What train? Train doesn’t run here.
Hasn’t for twenty years.

Still he waits for the train.
He listens for the click and clack
of the past to roll up beside him.
I hand him a warm cup of coffee
and sit down on the sidewalk next to him.
He should not wait alone.

Midnight Gingerbread

He eats gingerbread at midnight. Every night
he rises from his dark but warm bed to walk
to the living room where the picture
window lets in the tappings of moonlight.

He walks

with the tappings leading his toes
to a kitchen trapped
in darkened memories.
His wrinkled hands fumble
as the tin lid tings and he takes three
cookies from the plastic tray.

And the fridge light competes
briefly with moonlight
as he pours a glass of milk. And shuffles
back through the living room,

to pause and gaze at the window
with the moonlight tapping
to get in. And he thinks of her
and her gingerbread
as he settles softly, acceptedly
into the recliner near the dark
but warm bedroom. Empty
of tappings, but filled with gingerbread
crumbs.

Teatime with the Dead

She walks in profound little rhythms
sipping coffee and trampling graves.
The dead will surely reach upward
to gather her toes like biscotti,
to go with their lattes,
made with the steam of her eyes.

And she still walks in profound little rhythms,
with her lashes curled so seductively wise.
She can see the arms of her dead perfectly.
And she lets them pluck a few hairs from her head
to knit tiny jackets for the crows,
with whom the dead now take their tea.

And still she walks in profound little rhythms,
steps lightly with footprints lined deep,
past the dead petting their crows
and feeding them her curled toes.

Breakable Coffee

I still pour coffee for two.
I pour it into silly mugs we bought
at an antique store in the city.
I always make coffee for ten;
and drink it all myself.
But pour your mug-full down the sink.
And set the mug in the dish drainer.

Someday the mug will break
and I will be reminded of you,
and how you never poured coffee for two.

Recycling Man

An old man, who walks with a stick,
wanders through my neighborhood
toothless and wearing one shoe.
He sifts through recycling bins
searching for coupons
and discarded cans.
He wears the tabs around his neck
as a calendar.
Counting the days until it all folds
in on itself.

He wants to fold in
on himself.

I bought a case of soda
and left the empty cans in my recycling bin.
A pair of tube socks on top.
I have no coupons to give.  I used the money
I saved on pizza specials to by the socks and soda.
Because I think it is not time for him to fold.
But who am I to say when I use coffee and wine
as a paperweight for myself.