Hookie

As my eyes drifted from the proposal,

I caught Frank's eyes. 

He, too, was not paying attention.

My eyes continued to 

fall

to the arm of my blazer

where I noticed a white feather. 

I closed my eyes, 

for only a moment

and the scent of vanilla and mild lavender

rushed into my nostrils--

the smell of your pink t-shirt sheets.

The feather, 

from your down comforter, 

imbedded comfortably in my suit linen--

nowhere to go, nothing missed, and one of many.

Yet, one of a fortunate few

laying nestled next to your body--on top,

beneath, and surrounding you

on your deserved day out of work. 

Your feather was still there, 

where I opened my eyes

Lost in yet another presentation 

of suit culture.

I dropped my pen on the floor

and plucked the feather, 

as not to be seen. 

I spent the next twenty-minutes

holding my capped pen loosely in my right hand

and your feather

in my left hand

closely to my cheek. 

[Untitled]

An elderly man,

bulbous nose and belly 

in mismatched sweats--

absent of drawstring 

or any form of elasticity

to benefit his pride--

showed his wrinkly ass to most of 

Penn Station.

Hobbled along, 

a folder of x-rays in his hands

and a walker-type cane in the other--

4-pronged like the clawed feet

of the furniture at my grandma's.

Everything about this man said "Help."

A hand down the stairs, 

a finger gesturing the direction to the elevator

instead,

or an extra arm to hold his x-rays

while he pulled up his pants.

More attention, rather, was paid

to the homeless man

who scurried around the station like a rat.

He, however, was looking

for his left shoe. 

Lunch Break Bliss

It’s been nearly two weeks since I’ve been living in New York on a somewhat more permanent basis. As my pull towards the beach and oceanfront cannot be denied, I have found a place to sit and reflect in the same way I do in Narragansett. The beach sands are much coarser here and the rocks are covered by new shades of seaweed. The kelp, uprooted and relocated to the beach, also follows suit.

It’s rainy today but I will not let the droplets coming in my opened car window bother me. The breeze off the water consoles the gloom in the gray skies above. Despite the rain, quite a few boats are being launched from the nearby ramp. Although this bay town may not have the reputation to rely on commercial fishing for livelihood, I see many fishermen everyday.

I sigh and tell myself that it’s not the same; not even close. But at least I have this spot unusual as it may seem.

The sounds of the passing commuter trains coupled with the occasional boat whistle and the activity on the bay is quite amusing. Although I hear for horns today, the screeching sounds of the trains breaking trumps the locale. There is a beach across the bay with sands of a different shade, surrounded by enormous mansions reminiscent of Newport and Jamestown. There are many gated communities and driveways that stretch over a quarter mile.

For all of the writing I’ve been doing lately, between the book, proposals, and marketing materials, I have certainly neglected the pen for my own devices. But this place, with the docks, gulls, breeze, and crossing fishing boats, will provide, at least, lunch break bliss.

[Untitled]

broken lampshades

on unplugged lamps.

unscrewed light bulbs,

on-turned switch.

unfinished paintings,

rivers unabridged.

leaves lie unchanged,

while seasons have come

and gone.

the fall brings a certain warm

followed by cobwebs, mice, 

and a dust monster.

he lives in the boiler room

behind sometimes unlatched doors.

he is quite shy--

this painter with bad lighting.

Rearview

You weren't there this morning,

when I woke

but remnants of your face shone 

in a corner of my eye.

But then again,

that could've been the moon

off in the sky,

premature,

or late afternoon;

It shared your space,

in an attempt to steal

your much deserved attention.

I saw you through the window outside

there

by the building

before your afternoon break

hazy, through the humidity of late July.

You wore orange, perhaps oceana, 

certainly pink later on

when I adjusted

my visor in the car.

On the drive down, you blinded me

then followed

in pursuit of the night

when darkness accompanies

and our rearview bliss is hours away.

For now you visit Harold in Tokyo.

For Now

Another night comes and I've still yet to sleep

under the covers

to pull at the sheet

tucked so neatly into the crevice

between

the mattress and boxspring.

The dark-blue fleece throw

unfolded and spread out

atop the comforter--

quilted, patched, and floral--

folded up again

to be placed on an empty trunk

at the foot of this bed

in the morning.

A bed that is not my own

fills some space in a corner

in the basement.

That's where I'll lay for now.

I think I feel the ceiling panels calling,

although I cannot count-to-crack their code

of small holes

in the dark

of this cold room.