Selections from INSIDE/OUT

The First Drop of Rain

The first drop of rain on my arm

reminds me of his touch,

the special needs man on a leash,

tethered to the ticking clock,

a record of the time he has to live

a difficult life.

Think how easy your life is now

with no one to care for, not even an animal,

the hollow places of the heart

so easily repaired with airtight plugs.

Then the second drop falls, the third, the fourth,

signifying a change in the weather:

eye-piercing wind, wet with dust,

cannot see

what logs lie in the road ahead,

torrents, floods, rescue teams

drown in sorrow.

There is no one left to save on the island,

evacuated, each given their last dying kiss,

an invisible vapor

rising above

what’s left on earth.

HOLY COMMUNION

The little angel loses a wing within a blasphemous joke

on the occasion of his Holy Communion.

All’s forgiven as he ditches his new blue suit and big white tie

and stands in line at the family reunion.

He reads the cards, stacks the twenties, hides the fifties,

and unfolds the C-note from his favorite, Uncle Joe.

Little does he know, amidst the idle chatter and sloppy drinks,

that Aunt Marjorie in her wide-brimmed hat, plays tiddledy winks.

He chases his cousins around the adults, spills peanuts on the floor,

then bangs his head on the kitchen door.

Seven stitches later he is gifted with fives and tens

along with a big fifty from his favorite, Uncle Joe.

When it was time to go he waves goodbye

fingers tracing the quiltwork on his wounded head.

Up the block he spots his classmate in her white bridal dress,

aching to tell the world she just married Jesus.

The little devil looks at his shoes, scuffed and worn,

unaware, for now at least, his future spouse is not yet born.

My Father’s Fruit Stand

He always wanted to open one,

with juicy cherries for sale,

thin blood running down the line,

hard pits spit to the ground,

stems that connect each one of us

to the other of us,

yanked through gritted teeth,

one satisfied customer after another

with cash stuck in their pockets.

Oranges too, with thick rinds

over papery veins that contain

the ulcerous acid

that turns our insides out.

Bananas would be available, in season

bunches of them, phallic, yellow

with spoil spots scooped out

and plopped into the compost pile.

Add lucious grapes, green, red, easily bled

onto the bottom rack of pineapples, succulent, showy,

prickly at times, crowns plucked for readiness.

It is time, at this ripe old age

to plan the enterprise of a simple life,

to invest in his dream of sour lemons

and fragrant lime displayed

in parade day precision.

It is time to open a stand in his memory,

to plant it on a busy corner in the old neighborhood.

Remember him? What can he produce?

Let’s have his special fruit drop from heaven

to feed all those who looked the other way

as his carcass was picked clean

by well-dressed vultures

and multitudes of ravenous crows.