On Addressing Remorse About Contents of a Shoebox on Father’s Day

Bye-bye, friend of Mister Lee.
I watched a man die in a dream of mine.
Pressed suit and gangster lean impressed
the father of a girl who never made time for
regular old dinners (aka RODs) or his own cleaners.

Big brother stands up to the chink-hater.
Wouldn’t say it with a fist in his face.
Kids take naps in the same room,
and one time I confused 7:30 evening for
the morning light.
I tried to wake him up but he said,
“What, you go to night school?”
Afterwards I felt so comfortable.

Down the way from the hobby store
We rode our bikes down the mason road
for yellow banana snow cones and
fruit chews from Casey Kasem at the liquor mart
Afterschool, back hip circles on the uneven bars
I was upside down a lot

Honestly, I hated growing up
When dad slept on a cot with
a pistol under the pillow tucked
I learned good parents conceal things just enough
But he found a teddy bear bracelet
in a customer’s pocket
Somehow someone else’s loss brought me
something that felt a bit like luck
Somewhere I still have his Limoges box
which held my baby teeth and
little key to my diary lock

So now I think about the shoebox

…(unfinished)

High Flyer

Is it intelligible relief
or guileless disbelief that man’s cruelty could
coax a mastermind

When winged mammals are released
Changes occur in anatomy
The mind hardens to a tablet
and her heart widens like the sea
Like floating cranes
of wax paper origami
Conscience dances faintily
Delicate shapes of forgotten play
go on and pulse independently

Sooner or later she would perch a landing
And stew and begin to evaporate
But why, for who?
Faces like angry tomatoes try to make amends
because every soaring beast has its regrets
But in flight, pretty birds and angels don’t forget
a man’s word is as worthless as his breath

The Walking Woman

How fortunate she is in this existence
Under cumulus clouds she flares her parasol
And walks as slow as the sidewalk unfurls before her
Physicality churns a fancy
The woman’s buttered reality is sweet as
her morning crumpet
We have known her as a girl
but to know her after acquisitions
is surely an abysmal thing
She is fictitious

Rainy mornings
She drops to the bottom of a dark well
Manhole cover shelter
shields no due dates or penalties and
letters that state, “our records indicate…”
Unsure whether the cold rusty ladder
can support her weight
She becomes more real

She has rings on her fingers
and bells on her toes
She can hear clanks, pounds, and pings
where ever she goes
Not all women turn soft, sing, and murmur
when concerned with their comfort
or when securing self-nurturing things

In another existence
She walks as slow as the sidewalk unfurls before her
Bells jingle but she has sold her rings
Hair is black with no luster nor curls
Physicality churns a fancy, she controls and curbs it
We have known her as a girl
but to know her after acquistions
is a secondary contaminated thing