Interruptions

These shifts are routine:

common room wipe down,

logs, laundry, shredder.

The routine is tradition, dogma. 

Unquestioned monotony:

the rhythm of the graveyard shift.

Midway through the logs

a youth wanders in,

shoes off and dressed.

Sprawled out on the couch

in the common room.

Not in a bed in his room.

I rolled my eyes,

put down my pen,

and left the office.

The laundry would have to wait.

Interruptions. At this rate

the shredding won't happen till 5.

Hey man--you're not asleep.

I am astute. People skills.

I work in social services.

Having trouble sleeping?

I have degrees in my field.

A highly qualified individual.

Yeah, just thinking

about how to save the world.

Sometimes I love my job.

Awkward Lovers

Strays prowl our yard, drawn by rats 

drawn by over-ripe apples lingering on 

tired branches or broken on unkempt lawn. 

The half-wild felines shout love songs 

down the alley. The rats shake in trees. 

Frightened to come down. The cats are tolerated.

I know one stray. A two-tone malnourished creep 

comes out of the hedge when I walk to the bus. 

He hollers raspy complaints in until I pause, 

then pushes against my calf. 

Leaves behind chunks of fur. 

He's an awkward lover. 

Yesterday he played Santa. An iridescent corpse 

sat outside my backdoor. Missing an eye, 

it's wing half-opened and bent. 

This was no easy catch. It was a swallow. 

A jet. Cutting through the morning 

swooping low over lawns at dusk. 

The gift was art. A sonnet.

The product of craft and admiration. 

I stared down, thought about misplaced affection. 

I wished he had brought it to another house; 

one with time for a cat; one that could adopt 

a stray and appreciate his craft. 

I wondered what the cat expected of me. 

Was he watching? Hoping? I sighed.

The gesture was sweet, but...

I went back inside to find the broom and dust-pan. 

A Poem for My Dad

I even miss his halitosis:

turning my nose

straight out the window

on drives to the supermarket.

The angry conversation

with TV news anchors—

the twits who could not

pronounce Pasa Robles.

Pacing the sidelines

of JV football games

wearing his fanny-pack

screaming at unpaid referees.

All the small annoyances

only family can have: fights

with a decade of back-story

occasioned by garage organization.

No one will ever get under my skin

in the same mysteriously visceral way—

or force the teeth-grinding, fist-clenched

response: God damn-it Dad,

I miss you!