love – playing along…

They make little sense – dogs. They have their rules, and they’re making them up as they go along. I distinctly felt someone licking my feet that struck out from the covers. It tickled. I woke and questioned my three-year-old boxer at the end of the bed who looked around the room for ideas. “Zeek,” I said, “it’s just you and me here. Fess up. If it makes you feel any better, I realize what a sweet gesture it was. Only now I’m awake and the alarm goes off in 20 minutes.” In a clever ploy, he walked around the bed for a closer look at my face claiming near-sightedness. I decided no harm was actually done and suggested to Zeek that if he finds any intruders licking my feet at a later date, he is to alert me as quickly as possible.

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I’m on a Roll!

I’m on my fifth trip today
down the cereal aisle.
I have come to realize that
in the USA, every man, woman
and child manufactures cereal
and sells through my grocery.

I turn my cart around and go
back to begin my search again.
It appears I am now lost in the
Bermuda Triangle of the store.
A grocery clerk asks if there is
anything he can do to help.

I reply, “Pray.” He laughs a sly
laugh and disappears, never to
be heard from anywhere again.
Concerned that this is loitering,
I grab anything and make a
triumphant giddy dash for the

tomato paste. Now that I’m back
on terra firma, it appears the
writing on my cereal box of least
resistance is hieroglyphics. But
I’m wagering it’s cereal and believe
I’m on a roll! Angels sing!

Thirst for Juice

I purchased one orange
today at the grocery.
Barely got it in the house
and it became thirst for juice.

Didn’t even have
time to make tea. I was
spritzing high and low
like I was selling perfume

in a department store.
Got myself in the eye.
I came, I saw, I went to
take a shower. Night is here.

I’ve squeegeed the kitchen.
If the scent lingers beyond
this week, I’m remodeling.
Now I’m skittish about the pears.

Yeah, I’ve got issues.

We Are Still Here

After two years apart,
I saw you last Thursday
exiting that bookstore alone
hoarding as you do a large

bag of words, prosody I miss.
I like to think it is loneliness,
or loss of women that insists
you own all the words.

So I listen for the fourth
time tonight to my answering
machine making love, telling
me in some new poet’s words

that “we are still here, tomorrow
is still here,” when I know –
dialing the number you’ve left –
even the afterglow is still here.