TEAL

I noticed her glasses were broken

And pointed this out. 

She was well aware and said

she needed to get new ones.

She picked up my sunglasses 

that were sitting on my desk

and put them on.

Mind if I?

Are these prescription?

Whoa, you’re blind

Do you have a stigmatism 

In the left eye?

I started to explain

that well yes
to her

sitting there

but what’s hard to do

is say that you are

blind

in one eye.

And, what’s impossible to do

is show someone 

what you cannot see.

So you start by telling the

history.

SWING BATTER

I hear, “Hey batter, batter...” 

We’re wearing yellow, my team, the Dukes. I have gray sweatpants and Payless cleats on. Our hats have a D, are mesh and mine sits high on my head. It's snapped back to the second to last position. My tee shirt, our jersey, is too big. My dad is our manager. And he has no idea what he is doing. He has never coached anything before. He wrote our line-up on a prayer concerns card at church on Sunday. His way of asking God for help. He has given everyone on our team nicknames. He wants to play me but doesn’t want to favor me. I don’t envy him. I was there at the batting cage, and will be there all those times in the garage, hitting the bottle caps he’s collected with a broom stick. Something he thinks will improve my eye-hand. I will feel his frustration. 

Compared to us, our opponents for game one, the purple team, are the Yankees of the Little League Minors. They look professional. Instead of ill-fitting sweats they're wearing polyester baseball pants, pulled up with matching purple stirrups. The Yankees wear name brand cleats and broken-in gloves. They have batting gloves and special bags for their bats. Whereas, the bat my dad bought me at Oshmans up the street fits into the opening of the hand-me down glove and I better not lose either one of them. We haven't gotten to batting gloves yet.

“Hey batter, batter, batter...”

Is this what they call chatter? I’m up now with two outs. And, I'm all up in my head. Part of me is not in the game; part would rather not be up; part wishes I was on base; part is scared of the ball; part wants to hit it; part wants to take, knowing I’d probably miss anyway; part would rather play soccer; part thinks I’d suck at soccer; part is uncomfortable in this jock; part is ready; part never will be; part doesn’t want to let the team down; part doesn’t give a shit; part knows this is it. And here’s the pitch … "Sa-wing batter."

TELL ME A STORY

Tell me a story.
Make it a good one.

Go way back when.
From your childhood.

Tell me a story.

Make it hard to recall.

Try to remember names
—who was
with you—
and what
you were
wearing.

Tell me a story.
Make it hurt a
Little.

(ANOTHER) POETIC APOLOGY

I left the drawer open. Not the everything drawer. The silverware one. I don’t know what I was reaching for in there, why I needed it all the way open, but that’s how I left it and how you found it. And for that I’m sorry.

SICK MISS

I'm second guessing my food order
at the cafe with the coughing barista.

Two other customers ask her how she's feeling.
Not good and horrible were her answers.

What I mistook for slits, eyes tired or stoned
really belong to someone super sick, someone
who should not be working / handling food.

Now I'm noticing her pajama bottoms,
slippers, and rag she coughs into /
wipes down things with
all nonchalant.

But I didn't when I asked her to make me a sandwich.

Now, I’ll be lucky if her condition is not passed along
to me.

So tomorrow might be the day that
I'm the one wishing I wasn't working
when I have to be.

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.