American Male

buys his coffee at 7/11

finds dinner under the ehat lamp

at the local gas station

backpacks his belonging

dons shorts on forty degree days

to go with flip flops and white ankle socks

shaves close every morning

to avoid being mistaken for homeless

reads a daily newspaper in the library

calls his mother on Christmas day

cleans his cousin’s office after dark

day dreams about his ex

carries a picture of his infant daughter

in his wallet even though she’s an adult

who refuses to answer his phone calls

pawns his graduation watch when he’s short

sometimes sleeps at the airport

doesn’t smile much–bad teeth

and gray moods that dim the day

admires Robert DiNiro for keeping it real

fondly recalls the old neighborhood

is certain things will get better

and heads to the dollar store for toothpicks

and the stale candy bars he eats before sleep

to help him dream of soft sheets

and waking to the aroma of frying  bacon

which started each day of his childhood

before he left home to be a man

Ask

Ask and you shall receive.

Is that true?

Sometimes a question simply roils the waters

or the answer provided is not answer at all.

You can ask for too much,

morethan your share,

more than your share,,

or you might ask for too little.

You may have no right to ask

or you may have an obligation to inquire.

Did Adam ask Eve, “That apple taste good?”

Did Adam ask God, “Why did you expel us?”

Did Adam ask himself, “Did I get a raw deal?”

Did Abel ask Cain,

“Don’t you realize I’m the older brother?”

Does the Pope knew everything—or nothing at all?

Are answers more important than questions?

Can we talk about that?

Reflections on the Patio

she grew up with friends who hold government offices

drinks with people who’ve risen to public heights

dines with church vicars administering large sees

former lovers run schools

and relatives control radio empires

while she wades in the backwaters of the urban maze

she sighs with blunted ambition but realizes she also

knew a man who ate his gun

a woman who died homeless on an airport bench

and a once garrulous political heavyweight

who now wears an orange jump suit in early retirement

she pats the hands of those robbed of their past by dementia

and regrets alcohol and drugs have overwhelmed

uncles and aunts and cousins cold in the ground

while the waves of modern life wash away

the footprints of her feckless life

as she stares at the horizon

with puzzled wonder

her life has been

so ordinary

Sunbathing on the Rocks

You lay in the sun

on the rocks bordering the lake,

motionless, like a lizard,

your brown, bare-breasted skin

soaking up the bright

promise of July.

You looked up to find my smile

dusting your curves with desire.

Your calm delight at my gaze

brought me to your side.

You sat up, your palms brushing

your nipples as you lifted the

top of your bikini over your breasts.

I sat down and we crooned

a familiar song of deliberate seduction.

All around us on the rocks,

sunbathers watched our mating

dance like nervous gulls,

edgy at our greedy lust.

I looked back to you

and licked my lips.

You pulled your thong

into the slit between your legs,

took my hand,

kissed my fingertips,

stared into the blue irises

of my balding fantasies,

and asked, “Are you ready?”

I leaned forward

and answered with a kiss,

my tongue probing yours

and the dark distance between us,

while our hearts pounded

with the dangerous tension

that vibrates risky romantics

with terror and bravado.

My Classroom

The room was a garden

filled with young shoots

and waving branches

listing to the sun of

my smile.

The parade of history,

the constellations of numbers.

the periodic table of elements

waved alluringly in fertile fields

of age-ripened wisdom

and my students took

root as I watered the soil

of their quivering, vibrant minds

so they could rise

to inhabit their seedling dreams.