A Champs-Élysees Stroll 1980
On a torrid day, traffic and tourists sweat
and we trudge toward Café Ladureé
to taste famed macaroons. Like icebergs,
the fashionable French glide by us,
owning the space we rent today.
He sniffs espresso, wants to skip
those stupid cookies. My Paris magic
soured, I hurl vintage hurts at him:
You don’t love me. You never loved me.
His eyes flare, his lips quiver.
He snakes across ten lanes of cars,
leaves me gilded in guilt,
then scared and stranded,
staring at L’Arc de Triomphe.
He returns, puffing a cigarette,
punishing me, hurting himself.
Two tired tourists call a truce,
march in armistice down the Champs
toting a memory, a slice of time
toasted with heat, words, and smoke.
Just Right
So much is
too big,
too small,
too hard,
too soft,
too hot,
too cold.
I glory in
Goldilocks
moments.
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Psychologist, poet, Women's Press writer,
Hospice of SLO volunteer . . .
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Brain Babble
After a hard day I battle
with my battered brain,
take it for an evening walk
seeking a channel of silence.
Somewhere near me
raccoons and possums prowl.
Tonight I envy them
their life in the river of silence.
Stars dot the dark sky, offering
soul food for my spirit,
and I try to fathom these spheres
soaring in a stream of silence.
Back home I sit and write,
stroke my forehead,
forgive the brain not ready
to enter the flow of silence.
Beach Town Alert
Going door to door, a deputy
wakes me, warns me to leave,
a tsunami surge is coming.
I rush to get ready,
hurry to the beach
to watch.
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