July in September

September crawls now when it normally chases June.
The leaves hold their green,
and for once, summer slows;
curling the air above pavement,
shadowing the undersides of trees,
heating red brick walks.

This year with the crisp air
and the drying leaves,
Autumn will turn a ship west
away from the African coast.
The MOHAWK's white hull will slice the Atlantic
into a frothy wake, a wagging tail.
And cooling weeks will pass
before she reaches Key West, her home.

As the summer ends hundreds of miles to the south,
and the streets here quiet of school children,
my July will return, the first and the twenty-ninth,
and we'll meet in Charleston, halfway between Virginia and the Keys.

Office Observations

The fan is constantly humming,
drowning out the voices from the other cubicles,
pushing strands of my hair against my cheek
and lifting pinned papers away from the bulletin board.

I have not read the papers.
They belong to someone else, and I'm not interested.
But they float upwards,
held to the wall with a single pin,
dancing the Can-Can.

Post-its frame the computer screen
with yellow, neon green, and purple squares
each written in a different, messy script.
Acronyms, numbers, reminders, and a name,
they shake like leaves in the fan's wind.

They lean toward the light of the computer screen,
the cubicle's sun.
I suppose that makes this cup of coffee the ocean.

Marinating for several hours

The gruyere cheese lies against the bowl sides in thin strips,
hiding the flower-glazed rim.
The onion is finely chopped, the parsley minced
and all of that added to a shaken jar of vinaigrette.

I don't normally like the taste of mustard,
but I will try this with dijon, as Patricia directs.
With each yellow-smelling wave I tell myself
a recipe may taste nothing like the ingredients.

Cover and refrigerate for one hour to several,
the page reads.
My first Cornwell recipe, and I wait my hour.

When the phone rings, I pick up smiling.
But the news will leave my gruyere alone for nine hours,
and I hope nine is not more than the offered several.

I wonder if my gruyere is drowning in the marinade,
if it feels abandoned and cold,
if it will turn on me, and taste like mustard covered onions.

Poetry in a season

If I would spend more time outside
the Spring would be complete.
I have two windows in a city of high rise apartments,
and they yellow my rooms with light in the morning.
Inviting me to come out
and walk the paved and red-bricked Arlington.
I could stroll to Starbucks or just go walkabout,
enjoying the chirping Spring birds and their brightly greened perches,
the curly wrought-iron benches.
Without purpose or agenda,
leaving the wallet at home,
I must learn to walk the city
as I do the Virginia Beach.

Rereading a Disturbing Poem

I inch my way through Randall Jarrell
slowly advancing my bare feet in the tall grass.
It itches my ankles
and blocks out the sun
keeping the ground muddy.
I can see neither trees nor forest
because his poems are thickets
and marshy fields where danger lurks unseen.

In the silence, you must move slowly
or you will be startled by ink-colored corpses,
bombers spelling words in the sky.
Death barely misses me,
but catches the girl in the poem.
A feeling-fog lingers,
confusion and sadness, and I hope
this poem was not based on a true story.
It sounds too real to be fiction:
the little black girl killed,
and the red clay staining her white dress.
Who would think of that, if not the mind of actual events?

Despite a rational hesitation against terrible things,
I am forced to retrace my steps,
to reread the poem,
because I still don't quite understand what happened.

Protecting Pancakes and Hula

I wanted to tear the book from his thick fingers,
protect it from his roaming eyes.
He didn't turn the pages as I did;
one-by-one, stopping at each picture of old Hawaii,
slicing each side of the pineapple
away from its yellow heart.

He flipped pages, half-read captions,
often mis-reading the descriptions.
He criticized as if I had asked his opinion,
as if he were great enough to judge.
He broke my book like a coconut,
spilling every drop of milk
and leaving the rest to rot.

I had shown him "Pancakes and Hula"
because I thought he would appreciate it.
Not all art needs criticism or understanding.
Why does it matter if she took a thousand photos
and sifted through the sand for sea glass?
Or if these are it?
They're still beautiful, and still hers.
And no matter how little you can appreciate,
I still bought a book of her photography
and not yours.

Early Morning Nu'uanu

I'm a few minutes later than usual
and I blame every red light
on the odd time I left the house
and on the left-turning cars.
I focus on the clock,
barely noticing the radio chatter.
There's no real need to worry;
I don't want to go to work anyway.
And on Nu'uanu,
where the homeless claim shop doorways for the night,
a woman with unshaped hair
is belly dancing on her bedding pile,
curving her wrists and popping her hips
staring across the road
as if no cars passed,
as if no drivers turned their heads.