The Poetry Marathon

(from the title Coffee & Change)

I sometimes dreamed of days before, the heavy-eyed early morning drive.

Turning back to academia, the long hoursof winding highway,

rewarded with a seat of hard-backed vinyl,

a cheap crooked table, and coffeeshop coffee, fresh brewed.

I can still smell the rain as it ran down the windows outside, the coffee steaming

and so many bills wadded in my pocket, a brief respite sitting still.

Sleepy-warm in a student cafe alone,

and taking for granted the temporary relief of hot coffee on a chilled morning.

There are

hundreds of miles between us.

Fourteen hours flying.

Six hours sleeping,

Three hours worrying,

two hours waiting in a trammeled transit

five steps waiting

three minutes running

and one more step closer, one more moment closer

to the last flight to you and our lives, now boarding.

Slowly, piece by piece

it unravels for you.

Inch by inch it gives,

slipping ribbon sliding down,

rustling paper,

and the box.

And within the box,

my love, all of it,

carefully gift-wrapped,

strong and fragile and sweet,

handle with care,

use often, feel it around you

even when I’m gone,

my gift to you, my love.

Small, sly face, smirking slightly,

wide green eyes,

she waits until you aren’t looking,

claws out, sharp,

teeth nipping at their ankles.

Little queen Poppy, finding her forever home.

Beneath my feet, moss impossibly soft,

the outline of a feather, pure white,

stood in the rearview dancing.

A touch light, gentle, a voice,

the open road, the two of us

going far North with the summer and snow,

far as the wind could take us.

Rainbow fragments

scattered across the kitchen floor.

Small pudgy hands grab at them, as low golden sun

hangs heavy, low and sweet

in the afternoon heat.

Hot, sticky tar, harsh sun blooming gold

and slicking out sweat from me. My breath

gusts in and out, my face is bright, a red

exclamation point over red uniform,

legs long, burning rubber snaps

with leaded feet attached on thin, wobble string knees.

Hair swings, stirring sluggish heat as feet

pound in tandem with my heart, breath in, out,

and ahead pounds another pair of feet, another

set of lungs, and though we run, long-legged,

sweat-glistening golden girls, I breathe in,

we breathe out, steps slow but sure

for hearts, for feet and shaky coltish legs

and shuddering chests, the red tape

to mark another end to the long, long race.

It dripped, plipped, plopped,

slipped, slunk, slithered,

a cat sprinting away,

so fast the body was a comma,

paused

in midflight, from a hot cup

of fresh morning coffee

inches from a new laptop…

spilled away.

Great dics of bronze

along sandy banks

reflecting the light

for the holy masses.

Let there be light,

but in darkness, in night,

oil lamps, torches,

we’ve always craved light

in deepest dark,

but the disc remained,

bright, small,

yet slowly forgotten reflected light.