In London, you apologize

Too many times you apologize
in London

when the train is late and you are early
because you think you've mastered the time

when you run under the July rain
three stations later to find the truth you seek, already exposed

when you accidentally race toward your favorite shop
to find it closing for tourists

when you use the old currency
that has changed while you were not following the news

when you bump into someone
who has bright eyes but thick hands

when you turn into a corner of a park
to realize this vastness can swallow you

when you stay near the roads that are lined with people
who speak your language and yet you refuse to share your tongue

when you realize that time passes and that you grew
older not in reverse to the days

when in your heart you know cities that make you apologize
have the potential to change you

in London you apologize because you are a stranger
with a most familiar face.

migraine attack

In bed with the curtains drawn
you lay and think
of pain that needs to stop, of where you are headed.

it is not a secret

it is not a secret
the one you keep under the shirt

a yellowing of the skin
above your eye, a fake headache

we can make of the small things a map
to track your hioty

the secret is long-held
tightened hard with plaster

bridged with scars,
two operations later and you still look like autumn

small, yellow,
making your own color rub over the quiet house.

eggnog

first tasting, white like snow-caped mountains

eggnog 

whipped with strength, tasted with tenderness

checkpoint in the rain

The sunrise is different when you are on a mission;

the clouds seem to give way for enough beauty 

to offer other than rain and darkness, a possibilty

silver and gold lined, for the eyes 

yet as you walk or sit 

you know it is bound to happen

long lines of cars listless 

like a leftover loaf

inside, screaming children who want to run 

women restlessly switching between radio stations 

men nodding behind the windshield 

and you, between the bus chair and the novel in your lap 

there is something about forced waiting

like there is about rain, it pains the head harder 

a tinted shade of purple 

nothing happens, no one moves and yet

time is happening; 

life swinging and swishing like raindrops 

whizzing between the points of destiny

A to B, B to A, where there should never be a space 

to be forced to stop 

behind a checkpoint in the rain.

what do you tell someone who is heartbroken?

Nothing, there are no words for you to use
that are long enough to cover the ache
that is extended over to you like an arm;

you feel the breath rising and falling
on the other end of the phone
unable to bridge the distance

that is shortly compact with things
you never wished upon
a lonely hour, half-baked cakes, torn out photos

what do you tell someone who is heartbroken?
you say nothing, really
just wait for the lull that happens gradually
in between the wails of memory and reality.

hometown

I have seen a different rain this winter
mothers' eyes clouding over
sons screaming, fainting on the tarmac where the warriors once walked
locking children in the houses
clouds lifting from earth- skyward
this is my hometown, midwinter.