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.