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
Four Lines
Little Thumbs Little Thumbs our orange
Twitter-bird absurdly obsessed
with having the last word—possessed
at dawn by “I should have said” thoughts
Four Lines
a rhyme a rhyme the poet cried
oh oh woe the thesaurus died
I’m lost lost left two syllables
deep just four iambic feet wide
Four Lines
prodded by memory I stand
transfixed on an old stomping ground—
sixty years later my feet still
recognize this sidewalk’s odd tilt
Four Lines
how many times must a poet
rhyme oranges by changing mid-use
to bananas only to find
no fruit except dried sultanas
Four Lines
a hot day in early autumn
rustles glum among the dry leaves
held hostage by the wheezy squeaks
of a dawdling eastern phoebe
Four Lines
time flows like water in a stream
never the same hours or days but
the landscape still remains the same
thus masking the years pushing by
Four Lines
on this Memorial Monday
smoke from cookout fires and early
July 4th rockets drifts lazy
on a flag waving breeze
Four Lines
isn’t it inevitable
that the day my phone doesn’t charge
i’m stuck in a beige waiting room
listening to Frank Sinatra
Four Lines
we’re beset by an ill-tempered
wind blowing a southwesterly
tantrum of last-year’s leaves, upturned
cans and old lawn chairs
the crafty sisters 