Light Snow

Neighbors 

one-by-lonesome-one 

venture out 

smash driveway ice  

wielding pick, shovel, broom, boot

this noise often confused with soft, romantic snow 

swoof, crunch, muffle 

dark night under foot 

these sounds

herald winter’s early phase  

December’s pretty nod,

a trickster that precedes loathing

eventual heartsickness  

yet the ice-bashers carry on 

until the melt

when the sky pales

shades of hope and gray 

Writing Project/process

 

Turkey Run

Per usual, she — decisive and self-assured, loosely finesses her grocery list. She suggests let’s order a fresh turkey from Benson farm; it’ll be a nice drive south.  But she knows they’ll never do it because he will say why waste the gas. And he will insist on a whole turkey because … dark meat. He always promises they’ll do breast only. It’s a job, keeping this dream alive, year after year. 

Walking the West Village. 

No agenda exists, except lunch. First, they find a small park where she talks to the pigeons and observes a man seated across from them who holds tightly onto his black Scotty because the pigeons over-excite the dog. The man looks familiar; she thinks he might be a retired character actor. A woman on the next bench smokes a cigarette, noticed initially by its murderous scent. 

Her husband sits with sun behind his shoulders, camera-alert because street photography is his art.  Near noon, discussion ensues regarding cafe choices. She has done her research, points out the one on Bleeker. Or the Italian meat place. Decisions can be difficult. 

Finally seated at a corner table in Toscano, located on the corner of Perry Street, and despite the menu having been intensely examined, a poor food choice has been made by her husband. Anchovies must be eaten fresh; everyone knows that. Unhappily, he has not much option but to choose and eat sautéed spinach following a vibrant exchange of opinion with the waitperson about the condition of said anchovies (not fresh/too salty.) She raves over her arugula salad, remarks “delizioso!” and leaves a generous tip. She rises from her chair and walks away, unaware that her scratchy, but beautiful, Irish wool scarf, remains strewn across the spare chair at the cafe. Further down the block, she discovers the scarf is no longer wrapped about her neck, but does not lament her absent-mindedness, (perhaps to downplay any inferred forgetfulness) and instead, hopes a nice someone will love the scarf and adopt it as their own. Because there’s no going back to a restaurant where you had to displease the wait staff. 

Filled Up With Moon

Fearsome sun grazes 

the nose

revelation of freckles 

warmed belly 

heat 

goose bumps

a seashore day

after the cotton blanket is shaken, folded and taken away 

music from a side table 

french fries, fat and full

taste of perfection

promise 

rickety walk-up

moonlit tide 

damp-air flights

into a still night