Sahara

David Attenborough tells me

the Sahara is expanding. There

used to be giraffes and elephants.

Red paintings now. David thumbs

through a thesaurus, desolate:

bleak, empty, forsaken, lonely,

bare. But there is life. Spiders.

A snake. Ants on stilts.

They only come out at night.

Satellite pictures. David flips

to the back, vast: immense,

expansive, massive, endless.

Wind hisses over blank dunes.

Now David tells me about climate change.

The futility of action, drying up of hope,
play lullaby as I slip into an afternoon nap.

Malaise: Jimmy Carter Was Right

A Hyundai—best in class,

used, some version of

off-white, mostly dependable

but starting to rattle.

Kraft dinner with basil

and oregano, microwaved

broccoli, and beer leftover 

from a party left early.

A beta fish named

Joe--for the gorilla,

an inside joke with

a friend who move away.

A Moleskine notebook filling 

with doodles of robots, sad 

thoughts dressed in Sunday

best, and unread reminders:

call Mom,

change oil,

book appointment
with counselor.

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.