Spring Break #2

With every hand you throw down four aces.
We talk about a Great Horned Owl chick,
roped off from the trail. The female perched
above, the chick apparently prone
on a branch below her. I wonder if
the prone posture means sleep or death. 

I wonder how you will respond.

[RK, 3/29/21]

The Line

My adoptive mother’s father
worked at Owens-Illinois in Toledo,
Ohio all of his life.

When I was a selfish pre-teen
he took it upon himself
to talk about it.

He described the engineering
needed to design a bottle
with a strong neck,

shaped the outline on paper,
hand trembling, sketching
a wobbly and rough line.

I felt disdain and pity
for his lack of once perfect
manual dexterity.

Now, mornings before sunrise
I sit in the studio for one hour
with 4H and 5H pencils,

patiently sketching seashells
that collect in baskets and bins
like living organisms.

The sweep of implied French curves
distorted by my lack of dexterity.
My conscience says, “this too shall pass.”

[RK, 3/29/21]

Spring Break 3

The breakfast sidewalk table is shaded by buildings
lining the one-way, one-lane brick paved road.

Emma, the young woman at the vegan café
remembers us from eighteen months ago.

It should be enough. It is not enough.

[RK, 3/29/21]

Spring Break 4 (Epiphany)

Once again we are kayaking,
once again you are afraid.
This time it is about getting stuck
in muddy intercoastal shallows.

Once again you deny your fears
flush them down psychic toilets
with your shit and piss, unable to
bring them to the light of day.

I’m stunned, all LLOL and WTF,
waiting to witness your revelation.
Once again the epiphany is postponed
until the next double bladed oar hits water.

[RK, 3/29/21]

Spring Break #5

The resentment I feel
when another adult is driving.

Coddled and ignored,
is it any wonder I cling to the road map

like a life preserver.

[RK, 3/29/21]

Ash

Everything has been diluted
to the point of emptiness.

If this was one of those Zen things
I would be happy. Instead,

sentences begin with “So—”
and “But—” and “I never—”.

Wildfires sweep across the prairie,
brief and necessary. The ash

is supposed to act as a fertilizer.
I’ve forgotten to add the rain.

[RK, 3/29/21]

Treasure Map

My father kept rolls of quarters,
bundles of five dollar bills, in a
safe deposit box. His money
cushioned bonds and diamonds.

My father filled coffee cans with
pennies, stashed the cans beneath
the bathroom sink. He drove five miles
to save fifty cents on potato chips.

Penny wise and pound foolish.

My mother kept a journal, discovered
when I helped turn their mattress.
I never saw it again. Her public declarations were
reduced to Bible study and shouted nightmares.

My mother hated the caregiver role,
but like many, it became her mainstay.
Breaking out of that comfort zone
was impossible at age seventy-six.

The longest part of the journey is
the passing the gate.

Now, I hoard bones, shells, feathers, blank paper,
and shield myself from responsible adulthood.
Now I am wise, foolish,
and unable to pass the gate.

[RK, 3/29/21]

Spring Equinox

It’s a scam of epic proportions,
a biblical flood of propositions,
a plethora of farm fresh prevarications,
a lemon moon squirting juice
            into my eyes.

This was not what I expected.
Is this what I deserved?

Only stories from outside my life
can hold your attention.

This is corrupt and unreasonable.
I’m tired of being blasted
            with citric acid.

This is not what I deserved.
This is what I’ve come to expect.

[RK. 3/29/21]

The Never Ending Story

I could be your one-man bitch fest
venting spleen to sixteen compass points.

I’ll persevere. I’m no apocryphal saint
sprouting arrows or asps.

I know who you are when you
interrupt me just to shut me down.

I’ll continue talking. I’m always assured
of our unerring consistency.

[RK, 3/29/21]