breath-stained window pane

there walks the old man and his dog

too shy for introductions

I sit idly in my bedroom

the moldy scent of the slanted

shack floor reminds me of my dog

who died in the crawl space

after a row with a snake.

a hole was dug adjacent to

the old well and my dad

dropped her in that Sunday afternoon.

the glass fogs from my breath

I outline her name in the pane

within the "s" I see the old man

gently guiding the elderly dog

across the mossy stones of the creek bed.

in the spring,

magnolia flowers bloom

I climb each limb

until fear takes control.

maneuvering each step,

my eyes pause between branches

where stands the old man and his dog.

a kind smile unfolds across

aged teeth and his eyes

hint at dignity

distilled in golden brown bottles.

we eat honey with

muscadines from branches

and treat the old dog to venison.

we sit under the vines

with soiled seats and grass-stained shoes.

empty mason jars fill

with daily walks and talks

past the strawberry garden

and bee hives.

the old dog lays in the shade

near the hunting shed

until our return.

after easter service

I walk through fields

and woods telling myself

the story of Bluebeard.

down the path near his

house crouches

the old man with his dog.

the old dog comes to my voice

his wrinkled face bumps into

my knee with now vacant eyes.

the night fills with a misty spirit

and the shadow of the old man

and his dog gently glides across

his garage door.

the night is divided by the

piercing cry of gunfire and I

practice drawing his
name across the windowpane.

halcyon hours

Each halcyon hour
discarded by foolish
grins into the wastebasket.
The sunlit afternoons
spent in pine needles
and ginger ale.
Bodies imbued
with love and the
ineffable nature of
words. Each of
us struck the minutes
against the matchbox
and watched
their burning heads
drown in rain puddles.

A dulcet summer taste
hides beneath the tongue.
The scent of rain and soil
beneath our bodies
sweetly knocks at my
door as I walk along the
path. Now I schedule my strolls
and organize my poems
by hours and memories,
seconds and rhymes.

Each halcyon moment
we discarded with
grins among the reeds-
I think of them often.
On nights
when each scar of
the moon is made clear,
I sometimes capture a
fleeting memory in a jar
and tap the glass
until I fall asleep.

I do not pity the immigrant

I do not pity the immigrant.

he – a wondrous vapor in a whirlwind.

the past is not easily traced

and his future alludes

cynical prediction.

sins are simple memories

fondly revisited

and no one knocks

at the door to collect rent.

his hands leave no print

arms, legs, body, hair

resemble none living near

so he moves slow

between the rows of people

escaping stares

coldly running down the nose.

the park bench is his sanctuary

with an advertisement

in a language both foreign and near

there is not a neighbor

who recognizes the echo of his boots.

no friend knows how

he takes his coffee.

beauty and release

obscurity and facelessness.

I am the immigrant.

I have not yet chosen a favored cigarette.

I smile at everyone I see.

I do not know their

pains, trysts, and heartache.

There are no feuds or bad

blood flowing in our veins.

My knowledge is of bus routes,

cheap hotels

and coffee machines.

My scent and walk

strike a sharp note

in the ears of those

walking two-by-two down

corridors and subway steps

the eyes of others

run down the lines and angles

of my slouching stature

and broad frame.

I am the ex-patriot

who drinks too early

on the comforting steps

of the seven-eleven

I am the immigrant.

I smile at everyone I see.

I have not yet chosen a favorite cigarette

so I will wander, rummaging each pack.