Riding the Bus with Laura

He was sitting behind the lady in the wheelchair

when Laura Linney got on the uptown Broadway

local in brushed denim jeans, that he admitted were so soft,

if I placed my hand on them, I’d leave a print,

and a scarf tied… his voice drifted off here, she was perfect.

The steel tubing, the heave and haul

of the enormous bus, shambling up the avenue,

air brakes, all suddenly soundless, as he noted how

her hair fell just below her shoulders onto a black tee.

My brother works backstage at Lincoln Center

hoisting scrims, insuring the props are in their places,

waiting to be snatched at just the right moment,

constructing floors, dismantling scenery,

he’s seen beautiful women up close,

counted the beads of shiny sweat as they launch

themselves onto the stage all tulled and slippered,

but here with the moon

sliced as it was between buildings,

the noon time brightness of the night bus

and Laura’s head dipped into a book

moved even my brother the teamster.

He is stirred by the hue of her hair, the smooth face

the lips, the engaging hands, the loose pages as she fingered

them, and folded back a page as she signaled her stop.

She got off at 85^th , my brother laughed, the old block,

this man with a novel of his own to read, then followed

a sentence to the end of page, and with an unconscious gesture

breathed in the commonplace air of her once more.

Poetry:  Best of Show, Marblehead Festival of Arts, July 2006

From Salem to Northampton, Mass.

The van, all power-steering smooth, heated seats;

digital dials give the temp, indicate the direction

I’m headed – due west – as I select my stored CDs

from buttons I’ve memorized and for a moment I lament

again, my loss of a career as a backup singer, as I eye

how landscapes fill the mirrors, then fall

away to clouds and sky, encased in the grand

turnpike’s stanchions. I’m driving to see my oldest

at school. We’ll lunch, walk and shop,

then I’ll disappear. Leave her to her friends,

books, homework, Friday night parties.

We stroll past the frozen waterfall,

winter’s stark loveliness surrounding

us in the shadeless avenues, gold cattails,

trees silvering across the wide campus,

plowed pathways link buildings of clapboard and brick.

We wander downtown shops,

hit upon a glittery top, some practical jeans.

I snag a coffee for the ride home.

It was a good day to see my girl,

the mountains, the valleys as the roadway

traverses those extremes and here on this big fat American

toll taking highway where 60 is for slowpokes,

I cruise-control in the left lane, a dazzling 75

while the setting sun nimbuses the back of my hair

and with sunglasses I am the haloed highway Madonna,

heading home.

Published in the 2006 Anthology of New England Writers

English Composition One

How long did it take to choose the right Levis

before coming to class? I note the skinny shine

of legs, sugary eye shadow, applied across

these children wrapped in glassine wreckage,

smudged eyes, junkie chic, harpy lip-gloss. 

Manes of hair manicked pink,

the blouse clutched over a small tank.

What appeal is there to the tattoo on your back

beneath the low ride of jeans, the storms

of dangling earrings, strapy sandals, painted toes.

All these scented arms, ambrosial fragrances

snarled into the wax and polish of this schoolroom.

These glitzy girls with their alarming charms, I wonder

what do they read, these earnest poets fresh

from foamy places of rustle, what rooms

did they fall from in retro apparel, making their

literary debut?  Rooms of pasteled ribbons,

windows clouded from sprays, polishes,

incredible places, contaminated with plumage

and the chaos of trinkets and loose change,

the hair drawn from brushes, these jeweled strangers

Winner of the Marsha Dohner Award, Marblehead Festival of Arts 2003