My favorite bookmark
smells of cherry wood;
each time I read, its smell
compels me to proceed.
I sit here in my cups wondering
where it all went and why.
Fishermen cleaning their wares along
the decrepit pier seem to sigh with each
Conjurers like us
have no need
of disappearing acts
or card tricks
Would you think of me when the wind
whips up the sand and the angry sea crashes
against the crumbling jetty where our beach
blanket used to lay;
a chance sighting
up a slight incline
a moment’s gasp
Two men dressed in gray
asked us to leave the grieving room.
The son is here, they said.
Reluctantly I left my sister’s resting place
Why did Nurse Ratched think
she had dibs on all the nuts in the bag?
The little power she enjoyed pushed her
over the edge. I was there, I know:
We’ll never know who
the culprit was.
It makes no difference now
that the sun has set on western ground.
Time will toll the age-old tale for posterity
and frown, as sad old men daydream
How I love the coo-coo-coo! of a dove,
especially at dusk when the summer
air is redolent with musk,
and all around are the sounds