Audition

He sneaks into the kitchen and assembles
his golden goose sax on the stainless steel,
loose and relaxed as a hired sniper.
The singer and her combo on a small
riser, sleepwalking through an old standard,
pause when he begins to play, whisper soft,
the dishwasher holding the door ajar.

He slides a marble plinth beneath her heels
and her voice begins to bloom on the new
tune he reveals with coin and smoke and heat
and chill. The sculpted notes like old quarters
as far as weary-worn and coolness blown,
but like a slink of kitty around her
shins and calves, as far as smokiness goes.

this breathing is

this breathing is indeed a giddy thing,
the in and the out and the in again
of aromatic air from far forests,
cedars of Solomon plunged upside down

into our lungs, their essence easily
besieging the barricades and storming
into our blood, and then, returning in
victorious parade, clear and untinged.

forehead to forehead and then knees to knees,
our backs bent against the extremities
of the day, we breathe into the secret vat
we have made, where we pour in and draw out,
you giving yours and taking away mine,
as we drink and we sigh a new Cana wine.

Sunday Sonnet: Heartbreak Ridge

I stayed up way too late watching Heartbreak
Ridge. Didn’t even finish it. How does
it end? Got my usual four hours
of tossing and turning before taking
the dogs for their walk. Showered, packed a kit
for hiking (thinking I'd go after the
service), and grabbed my Bible. The sermon,
if you can call it that, was from Mark 6.

We had a decent crowd today: 14
total (11 residents and 3
visitors). Claire was there for the first time
and she was, from the start, eager to leave.

After the closing hymn, “Jesus What a
Friend for Sinners,” I took her back to the
second floor, just outside the lunchroom,
and she whispered me to stay, “Don’t leave me.”

Sunday Sonnet: Chariots of Fire

The Sunday night movie is Chariots
of Fire and the room is filling up with
walkers (that is, the aluminum kind),
with wheelchairs, and with warriors who still
walk on their own, at least some of the time.

I check in on Paul who took a fall this
morning. He was there on his side as I
emerged from the stairwell onto the third
floor, more embarrassed than injured. I helped
him into a chair and then fetched a nurse.

The movie room was full tonight and we
softly applauded as actors ran on
blue beaches and the surviving daughter
of Bobby van Epps asked me how to get home.

-----

Bobby van Epps was the piano player
for the Dorsey Brothers Orchestra.
I'VE GOT A FEELIN' YOU'RE FOOLIN'

Sunday Sonnet: Charles Descending a Staircase

Sunday morning. The elevator is
not functioning. There’s a punctual man
on the landing. With both of his frail hands
on one railing, he begins to descend

the long staircase. Sliding hand to hand but
not crossing them, and foot to foot before
dropping one daringly over the edge
of each box step. Charles in crimson slippers,
with dancer’s hands on diagonal barre,
our very own Nureyev at ninety-four.

The pall bearers pass the casket into
the idling hearse, the long mahogany
handles smoothly through their white-gloved hands.
But that’s another mourning,
another landing.
------
In spite of the power outage, Charles was determined to get to the church service on the first floor - and he was determined to get there on time.

Upstaged. A Drop. Down. Poem.

You've painted the greatest paintings since Lascaux. You've built the world’s most spectacular bridge. You've written the greatest novel ever. You've landed the world's loveliest lover. You've found the cure for a rare disease. You've won decathlon gold at age forty. You've found a trail to a hidden treasure. You've composed the most profound symphony. You've built the bonniest bridge since Brooklyn. You've acquired the portfolio of your dreams.
So now what? That strange fellow still accosts
you from his pinned-down perch upon a cross.
It’s uncanny. Impossible even.

It reminds you of that burlesque gag where
the target girl is pinned down through her blouse
with the first blade and when the knife thrower
turns his back to pick up the next, she Houdinis
herself out and kicks him in the rear
end. She then wiggles back into her blouse,
sorta. He doesn’t notice. Anything.

And when the final knife is thrown and he turns to the crowd
for his applause, she slips out again, tiptoes toward the pit,
points to her exquisite downstage bottom, and mouths
“Kiss it.”

Sunday Sonnet: The Name-Bearer

T here he is. Is that him? I don't know. I don’t know
his name. I don’t know his name, but this man knows mine.
He is greater than Adam, the innocent one,
naming the creatures as they paraded in line.

But that man bestowed no catness, no idling purr,
no electric fur, no lodestone for the compass arrow.
Yes. Here comes the one who brings flesh and bone and core,
bearing brass bell on his bronze tongue, pith and marrow.

Not unlike those who would gather fire on long limbs
and trek through rain and wind from distant lightning strikes,
or those who returned with brimming pots from secret wells.

Here he comes. Yes, it's him. He knows my name, knows me.
Say it, and resurrect me, remember me once
again. Give me water, bring me thunder, break the spell.

Sunday Sonnet: Gary Is Gone

T

his is where gary sat just outside the
dining room this is where his friend betty
sat with her cherry red walker i called
it her sports car gary shook hands like a man
every sunday for years we shook hands
and he would notice when i limped and when
my limp got better betty says “i guess
you know” and i ask “know what?” squatting down
in front of her ruby red ferrari
she says “gary went to the hospital
and he died” and i stumble out “i'm sorry”
while cupping her hands for just a twinkling
since they're swollen up with arthritis
gary is gone and his hands fold up inside us

Sunday Sonnet

D doesn't care where I graduated from school
or that my best church-going shoes are hiking boots
D doesn't really care what translation I use
or that my guitar is hardly ever in tune

D doesn’t care about my Appalachian twang
or that some, if not most, of my sermons are train
wrecks, or that all of the hymns under my fingers
groan like the blues and we meet where they play bingo

D doesn’t care about my stories or my plots
or my notes on the words from the carpenter’s cross
but she is quite happy about one of the arts
that I have practiced and mastered, at least in part,
the art of holding one of her hands, not too tight,
while pushing her wheelchair, a steady pace and straight