Pub Night

There are five accents
three types of beer
and at least four conversations at my table,

we eat nachos and drink.

Mike tells us about the Huskies chances this season.
Betsy explains how she became interested in plate tectonics.
Iain, Susie and Sarah talk about how to pronounce Edinburgh.
Aaron is just happy to have a real IPA again.
I have half an eye on a baseball game
while Lucas thinks of funny ways to ask for a menu.

We’re a large group,
polite and tip well.

It may not be heaven
but nights like these
make me proud
to be part of the Church.

Coffee and Newsweek

Old men complain about credit cards
over coffee and Newsweek.

A dog taxi parks
in-front of the café.

“Well, I never.”

the Rain

[I'm going to try and write and post a poem a day for a week, this is the first in that effort.]

It wasn’t so much the rain
exploding like fireworks
on the dark grey asphalt
or the wind in the trees
moving like James Brown.

It wasn’t the streams in the gutters,
the black clouds smiling
or the branches drooping
with more than they could carry.

It was the middle-aged woman
hiding under a black umbrella
unlocking her Volvo
with urgency.

It was the cringe
the cower
the shrink
away from the storm
that caused a sigh,

like the exuberance
was simply tolerated
by slightly annoyed people
with schedules and preferences
for quiet and sun.