Whenever the loud man speaks
he shouts
His clothes are dirty,
and he smells

The cafe owner wishes he'd go—
stop visiting—stop hanging out
The customers keep their distance,
stepping aside, looking away

pretending what's there is not
To welcome is to risk
recognizing or inviting
their own loud man inside

When the loud man orders coffee
everyone hears—but no one listens
at least, not really
He still gets his coffee,

sometimes a muffin,
along with post-it note smiles
and cellophane goodbyes
meant to rush and hush and usher him

out the door, down the steps
back to his own world
where we dare not dwell
lest we feel the thinness of our walls

The kid on the other side
of the counter
is rankling and ruffling
the social order

He offers sugar, sweet cream,
cinnamoned conversation—
nothing heavier than weather
Warm garments woven of words

spoken with heart offering no advice
just take what you need,
or, only what you want
A door has just opened

Today the loud man's hair is trimmed,
his clothes are cleaner
and he boasts new shoes
The kid behind the counter is gone—

We touch, connect, leave then
come back, hardening, softening
risking the silent cut of a blade
or is it a caress of a passing lover?

How much more time
does the loud man have left?
They're not listening, he's still shouting,
only maybe not as loud as before

my body a bike
collarbones are handlebars
let's go for a ride

. . . .

ribcage spokes of wheel
turning fast as you pedal
breath and barriers.

Diving
Between your thighs
It jumps
The pearl of mad silence

Been forgetting what the city is?
Or how to think or see, or how to speak?
Get off at the wrong stop, and walk six blocks.
So cold.

So clear and dark the edges red and blink
blink blinking there it tells you to be cold.

Slip into it, as if you were a fish.
Eat cold things too. Buy coldness off the street
or drink it as it patters from the sky.
Cry cold, cold.
Again, as if you were a fish. Keep that mouth open
in the motion O. Perhaps
some life form will swim in or out.

Big Hair and Pony Tail
are driving in their car
down Lucas Avenue—this morning
in front of me.
They stop at the light
and wait for the green.
It comes—quickly.
Big Hair is talking—I presume.
Pony Tail turns to look and
Big Hair gestures with a hand that swirls
and flips the flop from a rigid wrist
and holds a Dunkin' Donut coffee cup
in the other.
The cup dances—up and down
back and forth—splish splosh.
Pony Tail wags her head
and looks away out the side window.
Big Hair's hair rustles
and the green light lingers.

I rarely do it
but I beep the horn.
Just a little tap. But nothing.
And so I tap it again—and again.
Pony Tail turns to Big Hair
and Big Hair shakes
and drinks from the cup.
I beep again—and again
AND AGAIN!—Until I lay
my entire arm and shoulder
into the last blast. Finally,
Big Hair and Pony Tail
drive through the light.
It turns yellow. We ooze
through to the stop sign
one block away.
Big Hair and Pony Tail
stop. Surely,
they will get it right this time.
They sit.—I wait.
No one is coming.
There are no cars
to the right—to the left
oncoming. Big Hair talks
and Pony Tail looks—dead ahead.
The Dunkin' Donut coffee cup
Reappears—tipsy up.
And the right hand repeats
its little dance—stuck
in the groove of the point
being made.
I tap my horn.
Just a little beep.
It sounds kind of cute
I think
And then again
and again, AND AGAIN!
Until I lean into the blast
hard and long enough
that I can feel the arch in my back
lift my butt off the seat.
Big Hair lowers the cup
out of sight and drives
through the empty streets
toward the next light
at Washington Avenue.

I turn left and wind my way
along Grand-ma Brown's Lane
past the stadium
and onto Washington Avenue.
Big Hair and Pony Tail
are no where in sight.
I follow a small sedan
into the left turn-only lane.
In front of me
Buzz Cut and Curly Locks
stop for the red light. I stop too.
The green left-turn arrow
blinks on for us.
'Ohhh, I am in luck today,' I think.
'I am on my way.'
But Buzz Cut and Curly Locks
do not move.
Buzz Cut rocks to the beat.
He hammers on his steering wheel
with bongo drum palms
bam—ditti—de bam—bam—bam,
while Curly Locks sways,
taking a softer, more romantic
approach to the tune.
I wait and hold my breath.
This cannot be.
This light does not last forever
and then it will be forever
that we will be stuck here for.
Buzz Cut reaches for the radio dial
and Curly Locks flicks
a cigarette ash out the window.

I rarely do it. But
I beep my horn.
Just a little beep.
But nothing. And so I tap it
again, and again,
AND AGAIN,
until I press the heel of my hand
into the center of the car's steering wheel
for as long as I can stand it
in front of all the other cars—watching.
Slowly, ever so slowly,
Buzz Cut moves through the light
and navigates a wide, smooth
left hand turn onto Hurley Avenue.

I make it to my appointment
with five minutes to spare.
During my check up,
my doctor remarks
that my blood pressure
seems to be running
a little on the high side
today.

These gloves of skin
that I am wearing make
it much more difficult
to climb

I know they are meant
to protect from calluses
and burns but I keep
slipping

My poor teeth ache
from this smile
or grimace that I wear
daily

To close my lips around
my throbbing gums
is my greatest
desire

Radar shows a clear sky.
Yet, to the eye,
a wisp of vapor strings out
like a white lie.
What does the weatherman know?
Seated at his computer,
he punches in a front
several thousand miles away and
enters the prevailing winds.
He telephones his contacts
between here and there
to track the cold advance.
As data gather like tea
leaves in fortune's bowl,
the question remains:
what is the wisp, that
thin blindfold across the face
of the sky? Though it's not
on the weatherman's screen,
he can see it. He can
see it lengthen, deepening
like a fresh crack
across an old ceiling.