The Poetry Marathon

Desert Lover

Walking through

the alleys of old Bisbee,

I thought I saw

the ghost of an ex-junkie

who captured my attention

in these same streets,

twenty-three years ago.

A face like Richard Gere’s—

eyes wandering

inward, as if bored.

Cheap boots caked

with layers of dust,

probably given to him

by an ex-girlfriend.

Always, his shrill fixation

on his one

great achievement:

a novel picked up by a

major publisher, then

out of print

five years later,

with no further plans

for distribution.

His inability to stay in bed

for more than an hour

after sex. And, most of all,

his uncanny communication

with extraterrestrials,

who somehow couldn’t

keep their hands

off his genitals.

Who could blame them?

Neither could I.

Mars in Leo

You come on

like a forest fire,

but I am half-asleep.

Ten years younger,

you still stoke the furnace

every day.

I am content to sleep in

and shuffle to the kitchen

for coffee.

What will

become of us?

We met in flames,

but will die

in earth, sooner

than either of us

imagined.

I could have a

seventy-year-old beau

with real estate,

instead of a slacker musician

who works

at Ace Hardware,

but oh,

the warmth.

We’ll go cold too soon.

Go ahead

and poke the embers.

Why I Became a Poet

The paper mache puppet

I made for 5^th grade art class

received a C-minus.

I shredded multiple sheets

of newspaper, then made paste

from flour and tap water.

I loved dogs, and mine looked

friendly, though misshapen.

His dark eyes bulged,

and his smile was crooked,

though endearing. He fit

my hand like a flabby glove,

so I spread my fingers wide

to accommodate his girth.

My teacher was unimpressed.

The other students’ puppets

had been made by their parents,

and they looked like perfect

Disney cartoon characters.

Though my mother praised

my originality, I decided to

give up visual art and

turn to words instead.

So far, I haven’t looked back.

Waning

The full moon

gasps its last,

then shrinks

like a fading

black and white

television screen,

incandescent circle

growing ever smaller,

until the sky

swallows it whole.

Safety First

Before helmets existed,

I rode my bike dozens of miles

to the pool, tennis courts,

and library. My bare head

sailed through updrafts

as I encircled the middle school

parking lot, for no reason

except it was there. Injury

happened to other people,

but I never gave it much thought.

Later, my own son, swaddled

in knee and elbow pads,

head encased in a sturdy

fiberglass helmet, wobbled

down the sidewalk for half a block,

then proclaimed he didn’t care

if he ever rode a bicycle.

After thirty-two years,

he still doesn’t know how.

Dream of an Ex-Friend

Your face beneath my eyelids,

contorted. I try to remember

your words: sideways mouth,

rage erupting in whirlpools.

In the morning, all that remains

are your eyes and an empty coffeepot.

Familiar sizzle: hiss of water,

steady drip towards wakefulness.

I wonder where you are now,

two time zones ahead, stirring

in your own small bed. That photo

of you and your lover, his hands

protecting your shoulders. The book

of poems you sent me. My final

glimpse of you, face half-covered

in a surgical mask, pushing it aside

between sips of beer. Why have we

allowed thirty years to be trampled

underfoot? It wasn’t me,

or even you. Though I tried to listen,

my dreams offer nothing,

and consciousness only brings spite.

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