The Failed Body Surfer

In a tiny speck of the universe,

a huge angry wave

stands up, rolls over,

like a foam-tipped question mark.

A kid built like a cork

bobs up & over.

But I’m jerked off balance unwillingly…

a human hiccup.

My jaw takes in

a shovel-load of salt

as I roll up on shore.

Surrounding eyes mock me

like a high school virgin.

Why do I breathe air

like a drowned man?

Why do I feel like

I’ve been smashed by a hammer?

My fingers ripple

my wrinkled forehead.

They form a question mark

with my arm.

Maine Coast

When the small army goes up

against the large army,

expect slaughter.

So you said.

You were in the midst of translating

some obscure German poet into English.

From our rented bayside cabin,

we could see the flash of the distant lighthouse beacon.

If only it were always that easy

to invite people in.

As dusk flowed into nighttime,

the price of restaurant meals went up.

And fishermen tied their boats to docks.

The smell of fish overwhelmed

all personal perfumes.

The tavern became the life

of everyone but us.

Somebody Up There Likes Me

Third floor of the tenement building –

I see her face in the window.

I’m waiting at the bus stop

that’s a mere few feet from her front stoop.

Everyday, I’m here.

Everyday, she’s looking down at me.

Her smile must be for me

because I’m the only one here.

It’s early morning.

No traffic.

No pedestrians.

No dogs. No birds.

It’s a two-person world,

one who’s just a face,

the other, standing by a pole

topped by a blue circle,

one hand gripping to a briefcase,

the other wondering whether

it should wave.

But she’s shy. I’m shy.

When it comes to shyness,

three floors is just the right amount of distance.

One person with their nose pressed against glass.

The other with a minute or two before the bus comes.

A whole month this has been going on.

No further action taken.

And, as of yet, no sign of regret.

Watching The Dancer Through A Crack In The Door

She lifts one leg up to the bar,

 the other straight as a broom handle.

 While most girls fall apart,

 she keeps her stillness.

 She's a painting, that's how

 she achieves her immortality.

 She's a Degas print

 long before she or I even knew

 there was a Degas.

 I am in the wrong place.

The wrong building, The wrong hallway.

And looking through the wrong door.

But the record player arm

wakes the grooves

with violin music.

The ballerina steps

into the melody.

I can feel the whiteness of her bone,

the whisper of her flesh,

the sweep of golden hair.

 

It's true…a man can only love

that first time.

And if he’s a twelve year old boy,

then so be it.