(originally published in BlazeVOX Journal, Spring 2023)
work
Leaving Work
I.
After these exhausting days
who knows why I yell to no one
the things I yell on the way
to my car after work: gravel
grass and hill road buzzing
in the deepening sunset.
II.
The only relief I ever feel
is sunlight on my face
when leaving work–
the temporary confusion
of unsheathing one
unwanted part of me.
The breeze
greets me
like a once-friend,
my name
on the tip
of her tongue.
III.
Each minute– each second– beyond
when I am supposed to leave
wilts me. I look longingly out
the window mud-
stained in sunlight
I did well in the past
to ignore.
IV.
I get upset
having to spend
the remainder of
my meager self
racing
the end of day
light. I fight
my way through
traffic lights,
red in surrounding
eyes– to arrive
at my familiar
steps, already at
the foot of dawn.
V.
Morning
has that air
I like– half-
asleep possibility,
a natural neutrality,
a newness only possible
half-dreaming
beside the waving
branches.
VI.
Tonight, I spend my time
on an ice cream cone
with you. Under the full moon.
It makes my teeth hurt
but worth the work
a random hour a week
or two ago, when I was
sitting at my desk, wanting
nothing more than to come home
and see you.
(originally published in Statement Magazine, 2023)
End of Week Two (Happiest Season, 1/31/20)
at Tessaro’s after a long sunless
January mumblecore weekend
beginning no one to vent to
Pittsburgh bars of cig smoke
without windows I can barely
come up for air in the work
in which we say it all works
out in the end despite wanting
a cigarette having given it
up years ago just to again
(originally published in Nauseated Drive, Winter 2022)
I Spend Myself
(originally published in DREICH, Fall 2023)
Waiting on Mr. Woodpecker
what is funny about time its weight has
summer to look forward to I am stuck
in spring my watch says autumn the past
not with me may all prayers be with you
I genuflect my bucket list I never want to sky
dive I never want to die yet what handiwork
that built and builds the house this bird has
whose hours were mine I would never claim
(originally published in Bruiser Mag, Spring 2023)
In Lieu of Help, Send Flowers
On the job I steal time already
stolen from me. Taxidermied
deer on beige walls. Nature
in a protein bar. Yes,
I am consuming. No,
I am no consumer.
I push hard
but age miserably
among antlers
while day flees
into night flops
into the far future.
My family will
want bouquets
but you’ll know
what to do.
(originally published in Academy of the Heart and Mind, Spring 2023)
Chicken Imitations
We made Arrested Development-esque chicken imitations
at the restaurant– bakawk, cheep-cheep, wakka wakka–
being young, I thought that was the language of love.
We always laughed across the chasm of the room
when we shut shop, squeezing soap rags into heart buckets,
wiping fresh clear streaks on mahogany tables. I vacuumed
pita crumbs and invisible dust, emptied bags thinking,
perhaps, I was on the verge of vanquishing loneliness,
that I was sprinkling zaatar on a plate of foggy shish
tawook, a taste you might return to.
(originally published in Vagabond City Lit, Spring 2023)
Chain
Cramped in that silver
nook by the kitchen
was how not to know me.
The panini-maker pressed
pitas onto various vegetables
that were consumed and
capitalized. Chickpeas
churning in the high-
grade processor (with
special red spice).
Carrots in the juicer,
bananas in the blender,
hearts on dark trays headed
to tables by the window
overlooking the snow-
plowed parking lot. I dropped
wine glasses all week
and would you agree
it was too much when
the army came in
to sweep glass
off the floor?
(originally published in Stick Figure Poetry Quarterly, Spring 2023)
Blue Bridge
sometimes curtains blocking sunlight
are only ghosts sometimes ghost light
in windows only a brightness beyond
the blue bridge I work beneath only
the bridge will lift us over the Allegheny
only the bridge will float us into the grit
of the city the people I used to know
I don’t know them anymore what is
a bed but unmade sheets soft silk
I must become a bridge to get
myself out of bed in morning sunlight
beyond the ghosts of days
I used to possess I was
a curtain blocking the trajectory
of my own light
(originally published in indicia lit, Spring 2022)
Disc Golf
My excuse for a poor score:
the frisbee has teeth. And a mind.
It chose to rebel inside the wind–
I agree, of course, when you say
our food delivery job is temporary.
We have hours before we need
to clock in– an ordinary morning
straddling the Olentangy river.
Any way to get our minds off
routine: when scanning the field
for ticks, I find nothing but
excuses, for never becoming
the suit-and-tie my parents
wanted me to be, my score
well over par, another
wayward toss into the breeze
hopes for clarity on a journey
I know not where will lead.
(originally published in Penmen Review, Fall 2020)