Haiku

The past? A still pond,
reflecting. The present is
a rising river.

The Sprint

Tucked in behind a big wall of a rider
where the only wind I hear
is the steam-train staccato
of my own breaths
roughly in time with the
pistons of my legs
six riders hustle and jostle
filling the cracked
country tarmac
blurring colors and voices
and a row of signs
counting down the meters
miles behind us spent
playing cards
dealing out and holding back
now the sweet spot
sheltered for as long
as possible until a
break right—no, left--
into the wind
hunched at the bar
saddle swinging like
a pendulum counting
out the final seconds
narrow-eyed animal focus
on the line ahead
throw the bike over the line
then everything goes slack--
and we are human again,
grinning like kids, a slap
on the back--
Good race, man.

Not Trying

The cat again by my side on the desk
legs tucked underneath
slow breaths
a quiet Saturday night outside
occasional sizzle of cars
fans and air conditioners
voices underneath my window
people come and go from
parked cars up to the bars
my computer hums and
the lights are on downstairs like
there is someone in the living room
but there isn't and I have been monkish
nothing particularly social today
or yesterday for that matter
wait for love to come to you
it will happen when you're not trying
friends have said to me--
well
I'm not trying and doing really well
at it on this Saturday night
even clean-shaven and showered
in front of my computer and the
clicking of the keys that surely
would be silenced if whoever
she is—you know, the next one--
were here.

The Classroom

Is it my classroom, or theirs?
It's mine, of course, as they see me
whether I wish it or not,
as the man, the one causing
friction against their free-wheeling
self-possession and assurance
that they have this all figured out--
me, this guy, khakis and tie,
some gray at the temples,
who has designs on their freedoms,
via the theater of grades and discipline,
to keep them docile, when all I want
is for them to see these woods,
feel them, the way our protagonist does,
be there, crunching twigs underfoot,
but they are too much here, this
fluorescent prison, with a phone vibrating
in a pocket—a message from
anywhere but here. I try to show them
the seasons of a man—it won't always be
like this—but they will only see it all
in some red-shifted future,
when everything recedes. Now, feet on desks,
studied indifference, and a hardness in
some like a dare. The bell rings,
the sound of a round declared a draw.
Try again tomorrow.

Thursday Ride

Summer, and it's light 'til late--
Why write a poem when you can ride a bike
in a shape-shifting group, stretching out
and bunching up with gear clicks
and conversation and always a
whoosh by the ears
past athletic fields with pinging bats
as the pavement follows the land
up into the sunset to that ridge
you can see from all around
and you know you're getting up there
when you see spindly metal towers
sprouting antennae and shouting
god-knows-what to whomever
then down a chattery road
like the devil's stubble under
the wheels then onto a
smooth false flat down
a chain of six riders inside the wind
as we unzip the evening air,
animal alertness and vision wide.

Dove and State, 6:30

A woman in the rain
not really running
but taking large
prancing steps
knees elbows wrists
all bent
a small purse
in one hand
not the way one
would run
from a fire or
to a lover
frankly she's no
match for a steady
but gentle rain--
still she's a
bright spot
on the gray corner
of Dove and State.

Royalty

In the corner of the living room,
the cat sits on his worn scratcher,
a rectangle of cardboard with stringy tassels.
He surveys his terrain: a dusty floor, his bowl and plate.
His tail wraps around, parallel to his generous body,
a slight dip in his spine--
He sits, front paws extended regally,
chin held high, fur radiant in a shaft of light--
sated, stomach full of kibble.
He sits, still, eyes now closed,
whiskers at ease,
oblivious, maybe dreaming--
a pharaoh on his barge, Egyptian royalty,
Bastet's prince, gliding slowly
down the broad, quiet Nile.

Postures

The sun, low and lean,
cuts across the country road.

In my mirror,
a young rooster poses, slouched
in the center of his impeccably
clean silver car,
barks words I'll never hear
or miss into his phone,
arm bent, hand cocked.

Out my window,
a dull yellow bus in the weeds
has dispersed sun-brown men
now bent at the waist,
bodies speaking of labor,
stories in their frames,
hands in the ground,
in the damp earth.

Hudson Avenue, 10 p.m.

Sepia streetlight, gold patina
on green leaves. A vine of ink emerges
from a short sleeve. Pre-fourth fireworks
like distant thunder or gunfire,
sharp reports bouncing off
the cool, hard plaza. A bouquet of pink
in the sky, for a moment.
A sing-song voice, words indistinct
behind closed windows. More jagged,
weedy leaves in my impatiens
the longer I look. One piece
of neon at the corner--
Lark Street calling.
The sameness of tires
on pavement. And there
I am, on the stoop, under
the light. A sailboat in irons,
waiting for the wind's push,
this way or that.

Hands

Shaking or holding,
our hands touching won't ever
be just hands touching.

Spotted

The spotted fawn came
out of the woods, into the road
and toward me, astride my bike.
She—for the hoof clicks on pavement
sounded like heels—strode, paused,
looked, twitched for a lingering moment,
then, as a car approached,
sprung off into the green
with a grace and ease
any cyclist would admire.