Poetry

Haiku 14

Photo Credit: jenny downing. Licensed CC-BY.
Photo Credit: jenny downing. Licensed CC-BY.
Such a privilege
to sit on the sunny street
dying by ice cream

I paused at the shouts
of the madman, five cop cars
to find my meaning

But who, really, has
enough volume to be heard
over only the news…

I don’t mind baseball
history–the Babe, Lou Gehrig,
1925.

Downrush in the pipes
behind my bathroom plaster
someone else up late.

Two trucks back up
beyond my blinds: “Für Elise,”
those first two notes

I could fall in love
she’s six feet, a redhead
but then, what is love?

“You sons of bitches!”
was her refrain as they took
away the wood bat

My father, dying
much as he has lived, laughing
at everyone else

We make our own hells
or heavens, here, he told me
he believes that, too.

Thick traffic turtle
stove in on its southside end,
the bridge coming down

A ballpoint I found
on the sidewalk, after rain
survived to write this.

She swears and mutters
at each passerby, as her
cigarette reeks.

Albert Ayler, drowned
out by the Final Four; one
already history.

Neighbors’ argument
a distant radio show,
up elevator

Reconciling 
a motorcycle’s engine
to infinity

Aztec Camera,
Tuesday night, my stocking feet
warmed by the heater.