She was whiskey and rain,
with no allusions about their nature.

Two or three ounces
kept the world at bay,

but the storms were always a cascade
of water and spray without redress.

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It was the few empty pages

in the photograph album that got to me.

Like the end of a story not finished.

As it turned out, I didn’t come apart.

I returned to the items and mementos

that were present, finding refuge in the stories

chronicled there on the wordless pages.

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Reflecting on your absence

caused me to consider a list

of a few the things I cannot do:

Sort the colors of the wind.

Count the water in my hand.

Or, ask for the sommelier at Denny's.

We always laughed about that.

Knowing all of this to be true,

I would add another item to my list:

Remembering the sound of your voice.

I can see it now, but cannot hear it.

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My memories of you are messy.

They play outside of the lines

and ignore in what manner

we promised things would be,

and how we were looking

at completely different maps.

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All of my scars have a story.
Some I can easily touch. Others I can only feel
below the surface. Some speak of epic yarns
of stubbornness and foolishness.

The wounds I feared most were delivered
by the most talented knife of all, love and loss,
seemingly immune to bandages.

I learned to patch them up with time. In this way
when they open again, as they do, it will be gentle
and they’l...

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It lie there in my path, recently fallen

in the blustery downpour,

having served its original purpose.

Still repelling the rain, not yet succumbing to the deluge,

allows it to form small round windows on its surface

magnifying the petite patterns of the arteries.

The leaf, having discovered a new ambition,

has found another calling; beckoning me

to notice its seco...

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When I was much younger

romance sometimes felt

as if I was chasing a gale, or

trying to negotiate with the weather.

Looking back these many years on, 

having found more tangible things,

being in the wind and rain was not

a waste of what my time was for. 

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My daydreams are like clumsy little thieves

poking about for something of value.

Have at it you rascals!

I have some time, and no reason

to put locks on the door.

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We stepped into the downpour

knowing we had cover

under the colorful patterns

of your automatic umbrella.

Even so, we were soaked

through and through.

Considering this now, I think

about shelter; the kind you and I

thought we had, and how sometimes

it’s just not built to keep.

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My friend must have had January in his heart.
Yellow sun days something no longer real,
unable to remember how they felt.

If I had known how deep the struggle was
I would have offered untroubled keepsakes
from the capers we shared on warm days

It may not have helped, but now I believe
I would have at least let January know
how I felt about the matter.
 

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When hummingbirds alight near me,
like the one tattooed on your shoulder,
it feels like you are visiting.

Maybe you see through my eyes
all the love you left behind.
I’ll tend to it as you would,
to all of it in your absence.

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I ask her in the morning if she slept well,

as I almost always do, unless we fought

the night before. Then I am silent.

She lays waste to my anger

by offering me a cup of coffee

while we stand together in our back yard

on a mild summer morning.

I wonder without speaking,

if a pair of birds splashing in our fountain

might be a gesture of forgiveness too.

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Sometimes I get angry at my heart
for all the foolishness it has gotten me into.
It seems to have never been afraid of folly.

It reminds me of meeting you at that café,
my silly gift in hand before you took mine in yours.

This Spring afternoon, many years later,
with a bright sun working hard, I watch you
attentively watering the plants in our yard,
indebted to foolishness and all it h...

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Tethered by your memory,
you come back time and again.
And here you are once more.

And that's kind of the problem.
You visit all the time without being here
when all I want is just a while longer with you.

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At the light, a life-worn man
jostled his cardboard sign asking for a little help.
I handed him a five-dollar bill.

He smiled and said he liked my Star Wars t-shirt.
I thanked him for the compliment.
He thanked me for help with his next meal.

Before the light changed, he said,
“Maybe somewhere else we might be Jedi Knights.”
“Maybe.”, I replied, “Hopefully without Darth Vader around.”

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