THE GOOD STUFF

My friend, to prove a point, serves Black Bush,

top of the line Irish, to anyone who calls.

To be polite, of course, I have a taste.

If truth be known, I taught her all she knows;

a picture’s worth a thousand words, but a drink —

the right one — can strip them all away.

"You can't take it with you," she laughs, "unless

you keep your assets liquid," and so I do,

taking beauty, pleasure and the warmth of my visit

with me, although by the time I get home

whiskey is merely another memory, like a woman

you can only recall watching walk away.          

ANECDOTE OF A DOOR

I left a door ajar in Tennessee.

Bonnie, it was, blond and sweet, but

lost, too, you could see it in her eyes.

We only had the one afternoon.

She wasn't thrilled about having to live

in Knoxville, but said she figured she would

be there all her life.  She's the only one

I've ever known who said figured. 

I can still hear the kudzu in her voice.

I wasn't particularly sold on Knoxville myself,

but I was young then, and a bus would be

leaving soon.  It seems ironic now: I left

Bonnie in Tennessee, simple, pretty,

and full of wild, and I like to think of her,

her sweet syrupy tongue rolling curious

words, having dominion over that hard moment —

beauty, like nothing else in Tennessee.

GOING INTO THE CITY

It's been a while,

and I never thought

I'd be the one

who got caught up

in the web of suburb

silk, green lawns

and mini-malls 

with drive-thru windows

for if not everything

at least with enough

to keep me off

the train and out

of the city, but the city

was there always

a thought away

behind closed eyes

in dreams but what

do I do now

on the platform waiting

the train coming

but when I can't

be sure not anymore

and the young and perfect

girls are somehow

not right anymore

and for a moment

I worry that the city

isn’t there where

the tracks go

and I'm set on going

myself after all

it's been a while.