Hot Tub at the Hotel

We are ears

of corn

to a boiling

pot.

Scent of hot

water tang

and taste of

salt.

Some body

parts in

the motion

of a jet.

Here we are stuck

between the teeth

of bliss

and death.

Testing the Newly Assembled Trampoline in the Backyard in the Rain on Easter

We are raising kids, using our bodies

while across the road the church fills

and empties, we are still out here

glazed and waiting for spring

in the coldest hours the clouds still open

like we can jump for them. Years from now

I will resurrect this, how we were ready to let go

of whatever winter was. We stayed fortified, old

knees and ankles braced, while the sky pummeled

and the ground came for us, again and again.

One Minute in Line at the Pharmacy

I came from the third man

my mother married. It was timing,

I think. They met line dancing,

and why not? He worked at Boeing and

drove a Firebird. I used to blame him

for leaving, but now I mostly see

shades of adulthood in each day I spend

living. There wasn’t a time I felt close

to him. But he sends gift cards

to my children on holidays and I remember

he likes cherry cordials. The week before his birthday,

a reminder pops up on my phone

when I’m in line at the pharmacy. “Hey Jude”

plays on the loudspeakers. Paul wrote it

for John’s son. No one’s perfect, but imagine

a man who loves you like a dad, in fact

sings you songs about how the world needs you

to make it better. I would like that. I think

anyone would–as I mail chocolate, as I hope

it’s cold enough out now to not melt.