A Poem for the Anxious Dogs Along 10th Avenue

Smooth and quick—the bikes pass

your window. On the main route

East to West, they float by quiet,

unheeding your shrill alarms. Hundreds

each afternoon, confident and teasing.

Pacing marathons, whimpering, paws

massaging the glass. Dance interpretations

anxiety and claustrophobia. The long wait:

for food, a leash, a miniature door within

a door? Yawning—she returns tired.

There is no empathy, only urgency

in your trembling whines. She reaches

for the leash, leaving the way open, release

from bondage, the Red Sea parts, you dart

a false charge, a biker swerves into parked car.

Circling you survey: your own brand of justice.

Fries and Butterfinger Blizzard

Reverb and beer, lyrics

written for an unnamed

you caught me unaware.

Vague nostalgia—stars

above summer camp,

the milky way, silly names

Pickle-tree and Shim-Shimmel.

Crushes and otter-pops and

symbols and codes for youth

hid underneath a balance

raspy emotive voice

over simple chords.

The song reminded me

of friends basements,

songs about break-ups,

Dairy-Queen after youth group

and every first original feeling’s

shallow claim on authenticity.

This is all to say Julien Baker’s

new album really made me crave

fries and a butterfinger blizzard.  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wmGVIvf8Q6s

Stranger

20 years ago we  

all had their t-shirts,

insider knowledge

of their cover-art

origin and meaning,

and mushroom cuts.

Now in an empty shop

I’m bored, reading

classic books professors

raved about and then retired

to Gulf Islands—hippies and

gardens, a lyric surprises me:

Slim. Relax. Fine wine at the QFC

on a snowy Saturday night

Now, I’m a stranger mumbling

half-forgotten lyrics, estimating

the distance to the nearest

Quality Food Center.

Maybe100 miles?

Probably more.

So I Wrote a Poem

I don’t have the patience

or vocabulary to describe

the walk well. Light yellow,

soft green, so many greens.

I guess the light was

dappled on the mosses.

It was spring all afternoon,

smelled good and warm.

In the nice outside-ness

I forgot to be lonely

or sad. I felt like me.

I don’t know the science,

there have probably been

studies, poems for sure—

I don’t have the patience

to read them, or research,

but the colors and light,

swollen feet and hummus,

made me feel better, good.

So I wrote a poem.

Bon's Off Broadway

Movie posters covered in sharpie 

on cluttered walls muffle mediocre

juke box—greatest hits albums & Creed;

an all-night diner that closes at 10;

the scent still grieving smoking laws.

Teenager sits opposite me with milkshake.

I nod, study walls, sip bad coffee,

search for late-afternoon conversation.

Questions: how’s school? Home?

Want anything else? How’s your sleep?

Things are fine. Sleep’s not a problem.

Good. It’s important for mental health.

Clean rooms. No screen time. He nods.

I finish my 3^rd cup, pay and leave.

At home, I shove clutter off my bed,

binge on Netflix, wait for anxious dreams.

Squamish

The trees are tinseled with green beards that must have been donated by punks who spent too much time in the sun. Logs piled-up in the river, some branches still have color. The fish are somewhere. Not here. They filmed part of the Revenant here. Those people would have died from hypothermia before getting a chance to be shot or mauled or scalped. It is nice to not worry about those things. My waders have a slow leak—half-way up my right leg. The water is only cold for a minute, then body heat takes effect—similar to pissing yourself. Round boulders—copper, white, and grey-blue make it hard to walk. God tells me my ankles hurt. The river is wide and shallow—quiet for once. I have no beer, but a few crackers and cheap cheese are good enough take a moment to think. I should Instagram this. 

When I look Up

I see him. Still,

in the newspaper—

Mother of Two Missing in Montlake Terrace.

Greasy curls, crazy sunken eyes.

On the sidewalk,

head hung low, plodding gait.

On my sidewalk, outside the fruit stand.

When I look up

he’s not there.

Unoriginal? Maybe,

but tonight will be familiar: chicken

potatoes and veggies.