ON BOXING DAY

On Boxing Day,
there is plenty of time
to take a bath and
drink camomile tea
simultaneously.

On Boxing Day,
there is plenty of time
to unpack yesterday's paper
and take it to the cafe.

On Boxing Day,
there is plenty of time
to read and listen,
stare and hear
until you're sick
from overthink.

Two cups of coffee,
and a ripe banana,
a smoke from a leaf, and
plenty of time
should do the trick.

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?