for Eva and her friend, that October Sunday

standing outside of a restaurant, downtown,

watching the door for my husband and our take-out,

a boy and a girl around 12 years old,

that horrible, illuminating age of loss and discovery;

they were careful enough with each other

that I knew they werent brother and sister, and the

boy carried 2 Cokes and a brown bag, see-through

with spots of grease and butter and the smell of garlic

that mingled with the dead sea salt air of the neighborhood,

newly cold, another winter waving its white hands in warning,

the girl climbed on her bike, fragile, and the boy watched with pride,

then handed her the bag so she could put it in her basket;

it was covered with bells and she turned to call for him

but he was already there,

her necklace glinted in the sunlight, her name

spelled out in gold letters and written in curly script,

they rode off together down the street, their afternoon

spread out before them, simple and holy as a new green shoot

bursting through the sidewalk and I could see it:

drinking their Cokes, calling to each other over the hum of afternoon traffic

and later, pulling those garlic knots

from the bag, still warm, shyly eating with their hands while

their eyes said things their mouths werent yet capable of

they were on the verge of something.

copyright 2006

originally published in Zygote in my Coffee, print volume #2

some days

I walked the streets a lot in those days

& you never knew who youd meet out there;

wars raged daily on everyones wall & if

your feet werent planted there you were lucky enough

still somehow the madness worked on all of our minds,

the asphalt warm in certain spots the subway ran beneath

but the people standing around are starting to

rot & they stink of old meat;

why do I seem to be the only one who notices

that the trick is to not take yourself so seriously

age is a u-haul parked down the street, around the corner

just out of sight

the only jobs out there are for minimum wage

without that priceless piece of paper

& the mission on 116^th serves free breakfast every day,

every day hot grits, scrambled eggs & biscuits,

the first bite is like your soul being reborn

& who wants to work for minimum wage, anyway?

copyright 2007