SOLITUDE IN THE CAFÉ

Coarse straw hair tied tightly where
a broom collects, sweeping promise,
thin skin severe with cheekbones slapped,
signs of giving up under chin.

Exhales old-fashioned powder puffs,
long fingers form a cup for warmth,
autumn, twilight meditations.
Her widowed life a glass raincoat,

with little thunder left in thighs.
Of course her apartment is filled
with talking plants, fish-mouthed ashtrays,
high in the gargoyles of Paris.

Green eyes say she has almost reached
the point of buying white poodles,
picking up the next man who looks,
or taking a walk in the Seine.

Doesn't she realize that I
have introduced myself in French,
picked a fresh-fallen leaf from her
hair, ordered both of us cognac?

BALSAM BABY

Too long I have been a block of balsam
wood to be impressed by passing slashes.
Should I be forced to give in to any
painted fingernail or tiny jackknife
from a boy's boot? When I was child balsam
meant box kites and spitfires of rubber band
propellers, floating through loss of power
to emergency field of pond, retrieved
and glued, then sent right back into the wind.
The now age needs the heavy, the stabile,
constant battle to keep in shape, the war
continues with new weapons, thin sheets
of alloys tougher than teak. Allies are
always on the way, chiseling into wait.


TOPPLING

i dreamt his carefully shaped hand
painted a picture
with broken matchsticks
my braced and bitten mouth
planted like a stack of empty crated days
amongst the scultured tree
where his silence braided my hair
and his perfume tied my feet
to the cold hearted statue
in the unmade bed of careless idols
i never meant to keep

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