Fear the brown boxes, packed,
the edges soft and dented from ancient water and practice.
Tears, never heard or burdened. 

Fear the cap and gown, looming,
the faded pixie dust.
The superior words and published anthologies,
and the insufficient funds that wouldn't budge.
Drown in transparent bubbles and fermentation.

Afraid of the presentation at three, the number on the scale,
gripping the leather of the steering wheel, your hands always slipped.
Wish for different chemicals to fill your dizzying head,
the skin around your nails bleeding, chewed over.

Terrified of forgetting the creased lines in your face,
deep with memories.
Curse the words you had buried,
deep in the closet, and pray
to whoever would listen. 

Why She Didn't Stay

No one stays in our house.

Maybe on your birthday, when the candles accumulate,

and the years fit inside spit sealed envelopes.

No one is safe in our house.

Exhaust pipes rattling and valves stop pumping.

Maybe on your wedding day, when you need an arm to hold,

but instead you’re left with lip stained flutes and rice in the cracks of your shoes.

Truth is, she could have stayed, she could have

scrubbed the dirt from the crescents of your eyes.

She could have made you eggs, and signed “xoxo”.

But, no one stays in our house,

leaving with tracks of tipped chairs, bent photographs,

and betrayal like knife to the bone.

It could have been the PhD mangled by Crayola swirls or the boots,

that brought rainwater puddles inside, or

the interrupted dreams.

But maybe it’s because God isn’t fair, safe in his own home,

and we’re all left to straighten the pictures and pick up the chairs.

Quanto Caldo è Il Sole?

This is for you and the way your aged

fingers tapped the steering wheel,

and the wink in the review mirror.

This is for you and the faded palm leaves

twisted on a Sunday.

For the all the kernels popped and paper napkins

turned into bowls.

And the presents that were wrapped too tight.

This is for you and your deep, melodious

rumbling of Italian words.

For the hanging strands of flour and egg

drying on the spindles of unfinished wood.

This is for you and your roses,

for their yellow petals, curled

at their edges

and their unpicked stems.

This is for you.

And the hands that held hers,

and kneaded the dough.

And for your quick release. 

Where I'm From

I am from calphalon pots,
from garlic and schnitzel.
I am from decks of playing cards,
suits and colors swirling around a cousin’s dining room table.
I am from the pergola,
draped in its own fruit.

I’m from worn pajamas, 

and a worn blue shirt smelling of cut grass.
I am from Sinatra and McCartney
from Seinfeld and Chanel perfume.
I’m from shared holidays,
and whatta-you-gunna-do’s?

I’m from Tuccio’s and America’s Market,
calamari and nostalgia.
From the stories told,
to the books that could have been written.

I’m from dimes,

found on the hard ground,
the grass, the car seat, the suitcase.
I am from the past,
who send their love and their dimes. 

In The Air (a villanelle)

Your tie hanging on the back of my chair.
Your fingers graze the buttons on your shirt.
A dark hand running through my hair.

Clothes scattered leave you bare
Lying on the floor deserted and hurt.
Your tie hangs on the back of my chair.

Mystery and nerves hang in the air.
I look away, I don’t want to revert.
A dark hand running through my hair.

It feels too good to even care
Forgetting the secrets buried in the dirt.
Your tie hanging on the back of my chair.

Who could forgive? Not even in the house of prayer.
The gossip spins and blurts.
A dark hand running through my hair.

We’re all told life isn’t always fair
and good people are often hurt.
Your tie still hangs on the back my chair.
and your dark hand runs through my hair. 

The Friendly Confines (open form)

Maybe you held the ticket stub in your hand,
the edge was rough on your fingertips where it had been ripped.
Maybe it was a warm day and the humidity grew when you walked inside its brick framework.
The laughing and restless chatter rose into the air.
The friendly confines.
But the concrete was cold and the railing cool as you grabbed it,
helping you up the ramp.
And as you climbed green appeared and you looked up at him,
looking for confirmation, seeking a realization.
It wasn’t a dream.
Maybe he smiled, knowingly.
Proud he was responsible for giving you this moment, his son.
A moment you’d tell your children about.
You’d tell them about a place that has proven itself indescribable.
A magical place that feels like home.
The friendly confines.
The ivy appeared and you watched it coil around that wall.
You smelled the fried food in the air; saw the bags of peanuts whirl over your head.
Maybe when you reached your seat you took it all in.
The buildings climbing behind the green and white scoreboard,
the numbered uniforms running below you,
all the legends that ran before you,
and the man sitting next to you.
The friendly confines. 

Surrounded (a pantoum)

Our lives were surrounded by wood
Controlled by words
Manipulated by materialistic affection.
We couldn’t sleep on the leather.

Controlled by words
I hid in the closet wrapped in memories.
We couldn’t sleep on the leather
We never heard the silence.

I hid in the closet wrapped in memories.
Consumed by what-ifs.
We never heard the silence.
And laughter was rare.

Consumed by what-ifs
While living with a guilty conscience.
Laughter was rare.
But jealousy lives where the grass is always greener.

While living with a guilty conscience
Numbness ensues.
Jealousy lives where the grass is always greener
And one covets thy neighbor.

Numbness ensues.
Distress finds its damsel
When one covets thy neighbor.
Faith weakens when love is a hand wrapped around a neck.

Distress finds its damsel
And the charms of princes seem fewer.
Faith weakens when love is a hand wrapped around a neck
When a daughter protects her mother.

And the charms of princes seem fewer
Controlled by words and what not to say.
Views obstructed by flaws
Our lives were surrounded by wood.