Priorities

Intervals of flats and depths
are irregularly spaced
but their frequency is high enough
to cause vibrations, for shaking
the water bottle tilted to pour,
dislocating its contents
from mouth to pants,
now wet, with its presence passing
through fabric down to skin,
even as he raises his head
while colors shifted from green to red,
the car stopping in the intersection
like water on the leather seat.

Your Exit

You are here. There is no site map as guide
to find the nearest exit.

A scan for the familiar (I am no liar),
will not yield the path. Stay

and check each words instead.
Get drenched in the meaninglessness.

Don't look at your watch wondering
when will I point the way out.

How much time do you have? I only have
one more period coming up.

Next Mom

She says she is in the city
whose streets are valleys of honking,
between buildings of glass and steel,
to work there long hours.

How long has she been out? I can tell
by counting the stars popping out
in my sky and the number of buses
dropping off other kid's mom.

I wait for those hours to run out,
for the next bus to open its door.
I am sure my turn will come next,
to welcome my mom (again).

Half-Open Door

I do not know what to expect standing before this old house.
The dust, rocks, and leaves of my memory are no longer here.

The breeze is still cold, on what is now a paved road, clean
but stiff like your eyes, but your welcome is only for the pet dog.

Soon, it is going to rain and I am still here looking at you.
I can still see some trees left from my childhood but without fruit.

The breeze has gotten stronger, slapping me outright, as if demanding
why I had not moved on instead of lingering by the still half-open door.

It's alright. I will leave, you can close the door.