My Coat
my long grey coat doesn’t hold
quite everything
still, it’s nearly filled
a small spiral notebook
with red cover and
a thousand odd notations
five pennies and
a canadian dime
not enough for bus fair
or coffee
or even a phone call
if a pay phone could still
be found
a half-pack of wheat
cheese crackers
stuck in a side pocket
twisted tight
probably stale
i’ll keep them a while
longer though
in case i’m lost in a
snow storm
worried about being found
there’s also that stain
on my collar
older than my oldest son
the stain, deep as winter,
marks a time
when i fell and fell
and thought to stay there
The Bridge To Paradise
also has an underpass
that’s, truly, a graffiti library
it’s a great place to sit
among new colors and old words
you can watch the sun
never set
(a blood orange
that can’t be drained)
you can eavesdrop
on travelers
those who make it in move quickly
those turned back are slow
the slow ones are the ones to listen to
as they shuffle and talk
they know what they have
even if they don’t know what they’ve lost
Theory of Flight
you walk every field for miles
never see a bush burn with
more than autumn
the sky follows you
like a habit
you try to be invisible
that never works
so you pick up every shiny rock
to wish on
the paint by numbers kit
you want for your life
never arrives
so you look for treasure
in roadside hub cabs
you look for faces
in the tarnish
of wrinkled leaves
there’s no cocoon
you won’t crawl inside
beneath your jacket are dark wings
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