People Passing
By the grocery, a homeless man smokes.
Seeing me, he hides his cigarette,
stands up, nods his head, and says,
Ma'am, may you have a beautiful day.
His greeting follows me into the store
where I gather green beans and bread.
On leaving, I plan to thank the man,
and talk to him, but he's gone.
The neighborhood yardman unloads
his truck and emotions — he had
another fight with his son,
he just can't stop.
Later, near the beach — a gull eyes
my smoked-salmon taco, and
a boy whizzes by in his wheelchair.
I say Great day! to a woman passing—
she frowns and shrugs her shoulders.
On my evening walk, a man
parks his clunky red Thunderbird,
gets out, sets his puppy on the roof,
and reaches inside for packages. I say,
Cute dog, cute car, and pass by.
Behind me, I hear
Ma'am! Ma'am! Cute car, cute dog . . . what about me?
I look back and smile at the disheveled man.
In bed I remember Browning's poem,
"Pippa Passes," about a little girl walking,
unaware that she affects the townspeople.
Thinking of the Pippas I passed today,
I wonder if one of them
lies in bed thinking of me.
(Originally published in Kaleidoscope)
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Home Alone
He ghosts about the house,
reminding me to take out the trash,
to push the can for pickup,
find the paper in the bushes,
and to start the coffee.
He'd do it, but he's gone on retreat.
We each practice losing the other.
He's stronger, can cope with more,
but odds favor me to be the one
to face loneliness, figure finances,
and master the thermostat.
I try to twist open a jar of jelly,
and he watches, wishes me well.
(Originally published in Poetic Medicine Journal)
San Luis Obispo Mission Plaza
She pulls me along the red tile stripes
that crisscross the plaza — Don't touch
the cement Grandma, and she giggles.
She's in charge and I'm her charge,
willing to follow her anywhere
to taste her three-year-old joy.
Etching this moment in my mind,
seeing her as happy as happy can be,
I know she won't remember it,
moving on to school, braces and boys.
But if she's lucky one day,
she will mother and grandmother
and get pulled back to this place.
(Originally published in Grand Magazine)
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