(These poems were written while I was sleeping in the Riverway Inn and writing The Combat Poets of Maya.)

The Parade of Life

We all march at the head
of a wonderful parade
of friends out of touch
notes from lovers we no longer see
friends and relatives who've died.
Everyone's parade has a few
cages of repressed feelings
roaring in torment
over visions of things we desired
but never sought.
Other parades feature
cages of moaning feelings
mourning things we regret,
or lost.
But still, no matter how many dark cages
we pull in our parades
how we still love to lead them
that so few of us are willing
to leave our own
and join anothers.
Who wants to be the clown
in someone else's flea-bitten circus?
Who wants to clean up
after someone else's elephant memories
of a miserable childhood?
Yes, how we all love a parade.
Give us a few dead friends
a couple of doomed relationships
and we can walk the souls off our shoes
with a smile on our face
as we hurry forward in our haste,
so no one else will win
the parade-of-life race.

To Maude, From an Admirer of Harold

How the world loves a prison
to live in a rut so deep
we don't even know if it's day or night outside
our only choice but to live on doing what we always have
like we've been welded to a rail that runs straight
from birth to puberty to adulthood to death
no stops along the way in our rut
and we're secretely glad
for that beautiful meadow we imagine
to be outside our rut
we also secretely think is aswarm with mosquitoes
or overrun with toads.
Yes, how the world loves a prison
that we put up with those who shame us beat us whip us degrade us, God all mighty all right as long as we
don't have to actually do something about our lives
the very thought of that as terrifying to us
as being dropped from a plane over the middle of an ocean
of thoughts and ideas and choices;
how we'd sink like a stone rather than swim a stroke.
Yes, how the world loves a prison, I shout at the other inmates as I sit in my cell
closing the cell door to save the jailor the trouble
but as I hear the cell door clank shut
it comes to me that I haven't seen a jailor in months.
I rattle my cell door then and find it locked
and I breath a sigh of relief;
safe again for another night.

Looking Back

I remember the night
we couldn't sleep
I tried to count
one by one
the tawny hairs on your back
but you were so tickled
by my breath
that you squired about
knocking my nose
so I laughed
and had to start again
over and over
until I got so lost
I rested my cheek in the hollow of your back
and remembered other soft and warm places
I had been with you during the night.
You ran your fingers through my hair then
one going lightly round
and round
into my ear
over and over
the years drifting past
I see looking back
as my cheek rests against my pillow
that reminds me palely of the softness of your back
so that closing my eyes
I can count the tawny hairs on your back
from memory
and feel your fingers in my hair
one running lightly round
and round
into my ear
over and over
I remember that night
when I tried to count
the tawny hairs on your back
again and again
if you would have let me.

The One-Upspersonship Parade

He smiled
she laughed.
He was the first to ask,
"Are you free tonight, Honey?"
but she beat him to the bedroom door.
He came once,
she came twice;
even her cat came
and purred really nice.
But it couldn't change the fact
that she saw rocks on the road ahead
and he saw they were low on gas.
So he bolted first
only to find her already dressed
waiting for him to go.
Already feeling nostaglic
he turned to ask,
"How about a twenty-minute reunion?"
She only laughed her woman's
"That's nice, but it won't pay the bills," laugh
handed him his toothbrush
and saw him out the door.