THESE TREES

We didn't have much in that backyard of ours
but we had shade.
Until we didn't.

The landlord,
He raised our rent
and cut down the trees
Right around the same time.

Without those redwoods
we have sun and have had heat.

Without those redwoods,
We have a clear view of
what our next door neighbor is up to.

We were left with one thing,
I guess, besides the mess.
We were left with all that wood.

The landlord,
He says he's going to post it on craigslist.
He calls the mess he's made
"free firewood"
and hopes somebody else will take care of it.

The landlord,
He wants to know when we'll be home–the one that he owns–
so we can meet the strangers he thinks will pick it up,
and take it all away.

I said, Hold up. Wait one minute.
Please don't do that.
I'll take it, I suggest,
Or know someone who will.

No, we don't have a fireplace.
Nor axe nor maul.
Is a splitter the same thing? I even wonder.

I don't know nor have the right tool for this situation.
But I'm hoping the wood remains
As long as we do,
unspilt but cut up like pepperonis,
Because I miss these trees
We used to have in our backyard
And the shade they'd provide.

POETIC APOLOGIES

I did not respond to your email,
text,
call,
question.

I got it. I think.
Because why else would I remember this?

Anyway, I'll have to get back to you.
--

I wasn't listening when
you were talking.

I  heard you but
I was also on my phone.

Thinking about
someone else,
somewhere else.

I was in another
time and place.
--

I was talking when
you were talking
to me.

How can I listen
when I'm talking --
I mean really listen --
to you?

I can't.

SMOKING DOG OWNER

She ties up her dog to the dangling phonebook at the pay phone and goes inside the market on Belmont across 34th from the Stumptown. The dog owner comes out of the market with a light teal pack of AmSpirs. No, wait they're Camels – not American Spirits. She packs them, a sign she hasn't been a smoker for some time, or is young or both. And away she goes – dog in tow.

HOLE IN THE GROUND

I’m raking the front yard when I notice a hole in the ground the size of a squash ball. I rake rocks into it. Then some more. Completely covered one second, it’s a hole the next. I look down at the squash ball. What’s down there? On my knees, I take a closer look. With one one eye closed, I peek in like it’s a microscope. It’s dark and I can’t see much. But I hear something. A scurry. Not a dig. Maybe a whisper.

Who’s down there? I ask. Did I bury a being? 

By trying to fill the hole did I kill the mole?

THE ALARM

I'm care-taking the house of a friend of mine. It's not a big deal. He lives close by. I walk my dog there in the mornings. I was told  to water the beds before it gets hot.

The house is out my side door, left onto Stanton, right on Rodney and Rodney to Beech. Over a few blocks from Rodney, and across Vancouver. If you are taking this path, I should note that Rodney jogs at Fremont between Martin Luther King Jr. and Williams. Early, crossing Fremont is not an issue, however, during rush hour, the single, westbound lane backs up. A car once drove right at me, into oncoming traffic to turn down Rodney. I should be dead. But the car turned right before it got to me.

Vancouver is a busy all morning. It's oneway and goes toward downtown. There's a crosswalk on Beech and Vancouver but cars don't seem to mind it. Cars coming from Rodney's direction, and turning onto Vancouver turn here. Once when this happened, a man driving made eye contact with me before turning in front of me, and while he was turning I held up my middle finger out to him. I'm not proud. I know I can't take it back.

You must trust me with this story thus far. I want to be honest with you. What I am about to tell you may leave you asking questions. And I am prepared to answer those questions to the best of my ability should they come up.

During my three weeks of care-taking–It's not housesitting if you're not sleeping there– I noticed patterns. During the summer days the house would stuff up and become hot. I made it part of my routine to open window and door in the cool mornings and air out. The home is old but there are modern amenities, including a digital thermostat and a sophisticated alarm. The house is wired at everywhere. And there are motion sensors, something I was unaware of. No, my friend never mentioned the alarm system, and I didn't mean to arm it.

This afternoon I was opening the doors and windows, trying to cool the house down when one or both the alarm system or thermostat started beeping. The thermostat and alarm panel are located on the same wall.  The battery in the thermostat was dying and the windows were open–I didn't know thermostats had batteries. I replaced it with a battery I took out of the Comcast remote and that seemed to take care of it.

I heard a beep, but went about my chores, watering the garden boxes, stacking mail, and airing out the house. Before I left, I made sure all the windows and doors were closed and locked except for the door I left from. That door was open. Still, I was hearing all sorts of beeping and couldn't tell if it was thermostat or alarm panel related. I went over to the wall and started pushing negative worded buttons: OFF, CANCEL, EXIT. A screen on the alarm panel said alarm armed. Leave house. And the reminder beep turned into a countdown beep. I armed the house. And didn't know the password. It was time to EXIT.

I'M NOT THIRSTY

I was thirsty. I loved the way alcohol made me feel, so I drank a lot of it. I drank quickly, as much as I could. It didn't matter what day or what night. I could never have enough until I had too much.

Every Thursday at work, a drink cart would come around. One week the drink was Death in the Afternoon, a favorite of Hemingway's. I skipped lunch or didn't eat much. And dinner was Death and I had more than my share.

Somehow I stumbled onto the bus. I don't know how but I must have stayed awake. Or maybe I just woke up in time to realize that I got on the bus that drops you at the top of the hill. I'm just lucky I was going the right direction. I stumbled off and ran down the hill. What was the rush? I don't know.

I fell over myself many times, and then I woke up. It had become Friday. I was cut up and alone. I'd rolled down the hill and into my own bed. But the person I shared it with wasn't in it. She slept in the other room.

I walked the dog first thing. It was early. I was out of there as soon as I was awake because I couldn't face her. Facing her meant shame and reality and the possibility that it would be over for good.

There was finality. But not with her. For the next month, I lived in the other room.  I committed to quitting. I got sober. We moved in again, moved on and got married.

So much alcohol has come across my face since. So many offers, toasts, invitations and shots. Beers and bottles of wine. Desire for it, however, has turned into something else. Now, I don't want to drink alcohol. I'm not thirsty anymore.

SPRAY PAINT

Outside the Tropicana, a restaurant long closed and now for sale in this "gentrifying" part of town, whatever that's supposed to mean, on the south-facing siding was spray painted the phrase:

BLACK PEOPLE
USED TO
LIVE HERE.

The northbound street that's a highly trafficked bike highway, a strip that has recently acquired multiple "upscale" restaurants, a "friendly" supermarket, coffee shops, breweries, ice cream parlors, yarn stores, and the like,  connect the downtown with North and Northeast Portland. If you go there, please note there are five "quadrants" of Portland: Northwest, Northeast, Southeast, Southwest and North.

I don't think the Tropicana was ever zoned residential. Also, my neighbor across the street is black and so are his children and grandchildren. The people in his family either live there or have lived in that house for years.

Stopping gentrification is not a priority of mine because I did not study economics. I'm not capable financially or politically of preventing the sale of property or development in what were once poor, neglected neighborhoods. I'm probably part of the problem, paying rent too high for a house because it's in a "close-in" neighborhood.

People in this community ignore racism. They're too passive and liberal to do anything about it. Some are afraid of gentrification but are incapable of doing anything. But I can't shy away from the question, Are you anti-development?

I'm anti development if it means more traffic in my neighborhood. If it means high priced homes I can't afford, if it means a struggle for the people around me to afford rent.

Development is happening too fast after what was a lull in development in reaction to the national recession that began six years ago and continues today depending on what numbers you are looking at. Unemployment is next to impossible to measure with accuracy. I am unemployed but currently have more money than I ever have. At the same time I am indebted to the bank just as much. I don't receive unemployment, and I'm not actively looking for work. What does that make me?

To spray paint that black people used to live here closes the door on reality. Black people do live here.

CARGOS AND CLOGS

There you are. Years ago. In a picture frame with your now wife. Young. A skyline behind and a look of disbelief: How did I get so lucky? How did I get here? Wherever it is you are. With her. 

She, she smiles too. Her arm around you. That sky blue skit and that dangling arm, the one that's not behind your neck, droops. Not awkwardly. Naturally. 

Khaki cargo cutoffs cast a shadow over your knee. And it's the skin of your shin that leads straight down to those clogs you're wearing. 

You are practical and analytical. 

BOTTLE CAPS IN THE GRASS

When I walk I look down

Not at my phone always

But at the ground. 

At the park

On the grass

On the hill

Facing the sun

There are 

Strewn about 

Caps to bottles that aren't around. 

What good times must have been had here

Park drinking.

Last night or the night before

Summer was made for this

I think, past tense.

I pick up one of the caps.

It has a 10 on it.

Imagine 10 caps. 10 beers. 

I used to think

I could drink 10 beers in one sitting

But now I no longer do. 

ARE YOU READY TO ORDER?

She asked if I wanted to go out for dinner. She'd owed me a dinner because of the silly bet we made. We bet on the name of the guy who lives with her friend and her friend's husband. I was 99 percent sure of his name. I met him at their wedding. She wasn't sure that I was right. She thought it was someone else entirely. I told her to text her friend. I said let's bet dinner. She agreed because she likes to eat dinner and it didn't really matter to her if she won or I won. But I knew I was right and I like being right. And I like choosing where to eat dinner. When she asked if I wanted to go, I already had a place in mind that I had heard about. I even looked at the menu online and knew I wanted to order beef ribs. At the restaurant, we were talking about the difference between beef and pork ribs. She prefers pork ribs. I was convinced beef was better for this meal. The waitress came, looked at me, and asked if we were ready to order. I didn't hesitate. I ordered the beef ribs, then looked across the table. She said pork ribs but wasn't sure on her second side. I suggested one, but she shook it off like a baseball pitcher, then ordered something different. We sat for a moment before I stood to wash up. She said, "Next time, when the waitress asks if we are ready to order, at least look at me." I considered this. I'm still learning to live as two. When we were done eating, our tab came separated by item. She handed the waitress her card. When the waitress returned to our table she tried handing me the bill to sign. I shook my head and pointed across the table. The waitress said, "I didn't read the name. I always just assume it's the man who pays."