L

the last train car smells
like old milk
all aboard to sway
between First and Bedford
on the slow creep
reserved for late nights
drunk

old milk and beer

a child asleep on mother's lap
knit cap
falling over one eye
one aging Asian lady
holding plastic bags
filled with god knows what

who's been drinking ambrosia
is this the new drink
I am behind

my old brown
boots shuffle to make
room for more

THE TRUTH, or AN E-MAIL I SENT AT 2AM

It's been a weird couple
Of weeks with a lot
Going on and now
It's late and I can't sleep
And I can't help
For some reason but wonder
What you know about me

You probably suspected
But if you cared it never showed
I might as well let it out
Like a sigh of relief
That I loved you and I might still
And if I didn't believe
You're a good man

I'd never think something like

Congratulations
You're such a disappointment
Sent from my iPhone

YELLOW LIGHT

our World is the dull
yellow light
my laugh
knees drawn up
on your couch
wet jeans hung to dry

sometimes your hands remember my thighs

yellow light doesn't lay
itself burdensome
itself like day

upon our freckled shoulders
Intimacy is a big word

we are happy and unglamorous
we always share

a fruit before bed

SIENA

I sit in the second
story café drinking
white wine looking down
into the giant square

a mass of people
in groups of two and three
buying small statues
replicas of the David
or the Leaning Tower

proof they’ve been somewhere

proof is in my pudding
stracciatella
frozen and delicious
milky and melting down
my throat
dragging down chocolate shavings
and the last few sips of pinot bianco

I am buzzed and tired
from a day’s worth of walking
it’s busy but so quiet and I can’t
imagine Il Palio just now

LOS ANGELES

When the sky is clear and blue
and the sun is warm, strong, wrapping itself
like a blanket round my freckled shoulders,
I stop feeling hungry.

I’m a beast,
feline,
running across the desert,
muscles rippling under my skin,
searching for Home from ocean to ocean.
I find it where the palm trees hang high over my head.
I find it atop brown mountains, dusted
with Christmas green.
I see the whole world from where I stand.

I smell salt from the coast and thick, rich, milky coffee
and I feel awake and relaxed in my green-cracked haze.
I sink into the sun,
its warm breath on my back;
the lover that never leaves,
not here in my nest
of seventy two and sunny,
where the forecast is forever.

THE ROCK

I am at one with a God
I don’t believe in or at least
it feels that way
the mountain wind rushing
around my hot ears
soothes my mammoth
temper

I am sitting on the Rock
a cliff of sorts
surrounded by sky
dusty blue and
alive

the hills below
drenched in firs

noisy campers nearby
leave me alone
but here solitude
is welcome
for once

these are not Heidi’s Alps
I just happen to be here

JERUSALEM

Golden stones soiled from centuries
of sandals trodding,
flat and smooth underfoot
as I walk down the Rova.

I stop for falafel, hot
and greasy like hoods
of shining cars parked in dusty
streets outside the Old City.

dirty, gorgeous, soaked
in the stench of freshly dyed leathers,
cow carcasses hanging from hooks
and pita with zaatar, all available

in the cramped shuk.
Loud voices negotiate
for goods instead of territories.
I buy a hookah for twenty shekels and stuff
it in my bag out of respect
for the crowds returning
From the Wall.