Poetry

Haiku 3

photo by Jon Rutlen
photo by Jon Rutlen
Halloween evening,
her only costume, Hebrew
running up one leg.

What we have, at last,
nothing less than this window,
facing the sidewalk

In the company of
twenty others, for the bus stop,
I’m safe in my cave.

Spaghetti tonight,
because he was in the mood;
I’ll remember today.

Steady beeping, heard
over the rain splatter, and
tearing of the wind.

My two knees, shooting
sparks of pins-and-needles pain,
twin unseen circles

Moss grown exact
around only the outlines
of the van’s windows.

A helicopter,
blinking and blatting, steady
edge of the backout.

Flashlight’s beam, broken
into pieces through the hedge,
into fireflies

No, I did not take
the cider–I take your word
on how refreshing

Weak signal, windstorm;
Friday’s national prime time
warped and foamy.

“Today is Friday?”
she asks, and back she’ll come in
seven minutes time.

Leaves fallen from one tree
only, one block, 4th Avenue,
snowing orange on grey.

I must find meaning
in the wall’s one thin shadow
to get on with life.

Spider, suspended
between the church and the street sign,
morning sovereign.

Two books, worth reading,
I’m reasonably sure; and
lives stand on much less.

A bum’s bicycle
blocking the doors of the train,
Milk-Bones, his dinner.

Hollow-cored scraping,
start and stop, through the tunnel,
almost like a sob.

One shut umbrella
alone on a station seat…
our world needs color

“I’m lost,” says the dog
on the poster; I almost
believe he can talk.

The street no one knows
turns out to lie one-half block
from where no one knows