Saturday, early morning---
the first footfalls at the table,
clink of keys, silver Bulova and
union badge #437
unwind from the graveyard shift.

He would sleep within an earshot of
mild roars and teenage clangor
in our modest house on 29th Street
while Mother invented new ways to iron

workpants with wire: inlays wedged
with springs against the seams
hung on hangers from our doorways
to dry in their starched blue platoons.

He said I was growing taller than
the summer ivy---wild, serpentine.
While nothing made sense, everything
had priority. This---

growing pains, and that---part hoopla
he determined would pass. We were bound,
by Saturday nights in halcyon corners
and the one blue button.

The threading was easy. I caught a glimpse
of the august smile he was trying to hide,
I thought of Mother
off to Saturday night bingo,

notched among the chips and boards
ready to nail the victory,
her hand rising through a curl of smoke---
missing this.

Midlife on the West Coast

The journey was only four days.
Two days driving, two days keeping
a vigil of new skiis on the rack, unaltered---
then home: collapsable bed that disappeared
into the wall, black marble sink and tub,
a new book of happiness on the shelf.

I counted twenty-eight days while
reading of happiness, the ultimate discipline
without reason. The almond blossoms had
faded into the Pacific hillsides and no rain---
no rain from the unbroken blue
spilling backward with the tide.

Silence was so accurate this time of year.
I wanted to hum to the unbroken music
and dimming of light---whether the melody
or harmony was, to the end or beyond---
life's nebulous need to sing.

And the damned sunsets. Like a god saying breathe
just before the final slap.

Poetry Magazine