of what does this group of artists
speak under these fluorescent lights
gathered round those six white plastic
tables while wielding their tools
oh Dublin trips and stocking slips
and why your brush should dance just once
should Oreos be classed like crack
and the griefs of growing old
November is a homeless month
weather neither fall nor winter
endlessly it wanders bitter
cloaked in grey
it’s November and an hour past
sunrise but clouds roost overhead
grey impenetrable soft-edged
reluctant I switch on my lamps
I strain my ears for the quiet
sounds that travel light on the fall
wind like the cheep of a roosting
bird half-muffled by falling leaves
the wind shook the trees by their leaves
till the woods echoed with the roar—
a dry, cry of friction so low
it vibrated through my heels
out secondhand shopping we found
a half-off goodwill then final
day estate sale—we went home well
pleased with just-right finds and dear friends
Mac is an extra large Lab who
horizontal spreads a yard all ways—
imagine a man-sized hallway,
a dog, and painstaking steps through
Four Lines
Mackie was a pup alone tossed
beside the river—on seeing
my car he scratched at the door then
climbed in to sleep on my lap
Four Lines
my brave brave Mac loves all water
but a bath—yet while I bathe
he stands sentry just behind the door
poised to fight killer soap
Little Thumbs Little Thumbs our orange
Twitter-bird absurdly obsessed
with having the last word—possessed
at dawn by “I should have said” thoughts
