Tag Archives: coffee

Tuesday the 10th [from “The Week,” a series of 7 poems leading up to Friday the 13th]

deadend

Tuesday the 10th

A spring day as unsatisfying
As seeing the reflection

Of your math teacher
In the ice cream shop window.

Walking uphill to work
With two cups of coffee

Neither of which you
Can drink from because

Rain returning to the creek
Has undermined loose sidewalk

Bricks and because
You can’t remember

Which cup was yours.

Near the End of the First Winter of My Sixth Decade

Near the End of the First Winter of My Sixth Decade

Through a brick-lined alley where I read my life’s sentence
I step over a rivulet of snowmelt that flows behind me into the past

walking with an open cup of coffee in a soft cold rain

Cool Morning, On the Road to Work, and Later

Cool Morning, On the Road to Work, and Later

 

Sparrows huddle under the car’s warm frame.
As I come back with my coffee they flow out

between the tires like a sound. Gray clouds nest
on the ridgeline. Driving into this image of sullenness

lightens me—as I pass through the opaque menace thins
to harmless mist. On the road home the light rain

drones outside the window like a distant train.
From my porch my daughter and I watch bats

sweep away the dusk. Pockets of light appear,
tuck into lamps for a few hours, then go out.