Category Archives: Poetry

On Being This Age (53)

Between the piles and the cavities
I am fraying at the edges
In this, my fifty-third year

I’ve spent my ten thousand hours
Earning expertise
As an employee and as a reader
Subservient to the corporation
And to the word

Like a fractured hermit crab
Resting in the tide pool
I wait for the sea
To obliterate
Either these familiar surroundings or

Carry me beyond the reef
Into the trench
With its tapered sides
Littered with empty shells

Was any preparation
Ever possible
Or applicable
For such an eventuality?

Ask the crab with the cracked carapace
If mending him
Will ever fix anything


We Were Young

We were young and in traffic
He offered work for food
We had no work to offer
We barely had an apartment

Embarrassed in our Chevy Citation
By our conspicuous wealth
We gave him our strawberries
Which he protected with the shade of his body

Older, wiser, and better off
We look forward to a prix fixe menu
He offers a balm to our consciences
We offer cash in large denominations



I write with a quill pen
Pulled from the backside of
A male cross-eyed porcupine
Who has known love only
Once. The pen is dipped in
An elixir, sublime and notorious
For its pigments processed
From the milk of the female
Green-spotted octopus. The
Only paper that I use is
Carolinian tan, produced by
A family of Cuban immigrants
Who harvest reeds on the Outer
Banks and bake their smooth
Sheets on the dunes of Kitty Hawk.