The Man

A large, sloppy-looking man

swigs from an orange juice can,

pulls it away from his bearded chin,

looks at it, then jerks it up again,

tips his head and drains it dry.

He blows a deep sigh,

the kind whiskey drinkers 

let out after the bite.

Wiping his whiskers on  the

back of his hand, he flicks

the can where it doesn’t belong,

then sloughs off, making click

noises with his tongue; 

and the schloop sound of his 

loafers fades down

the smaller 

and smaller 

he becomes.

The Woman

When the woman fell in the street that day

I was in the commuter stampede

and saw it happen — saw her ankle bend;

her lunge forward held my eyes 

and seemed to slowly topple as I watched.

She went down like a movie horse 

in slow motion —head tilted back — 

hair flying — mouth open — 

arms starting to reach forth

slowly — too slowly — extending

only half way, then pinned

underneath her downed body after it

stunningly, gracefully fell and then

bounced, as though a well-rehearsed

choreographed stunt, the shock 

and pain also in slow motion.

Her grimace, as her cheek ground 

into pavement, grated my skin off the bone.  

My hand went to my face.  

I can still feel the burning.

The Old Lady

The old lady danced with ghosts and 

pulled invisible weeds all day.

She slept in her car, 

crawling out in the winter

with frost in her hair.

The old lady watched Cinderella

five times in a row

at the neighbor’s house with the kids

until the mom had to say time to go home.

The old lady couldn’t fit in her house

because the ghosts had too many belongings

and their music made her cry.

So she slept in her car every single night.

If her rag brown dog hadn’t

lain right down in the road that day, 

no one would have noticed that she died.