Monday, January 31, 2022

Night Walk


I wish I had a friend

who liked walking in the dark

she would come knock for me at the door, 

the way 

my seventh grade friends did 

when we went to the lake in winter

after I’d washed the dinner dishes 

left to dry on their own 


snowy sky

skates slung over our shoulders 

we would make our way to the 

frozen lake 

the wood fire 

the boys 


as a young mother,

children off to sleep, 

I and my neighbor friend 

(who is long dead,)

would meet out on the sidewalk


humidity down

oak leaves at peak growth 

perfect measure of 

gossip and wisdom 


“how to get rid of a sinus headache;

wonder how much the new people paid for their house”


cicadas chirp their primal calls

the only other sound, 

low timbre of our voices 


these days I’d be satisfied with a brisk, brief neighborly walk 

my adventurous friend and I would breathe in the crisp cold night

lungs strong

report on our days 

philosophize

(free-form the way I did as a child)

excited talkers

intent listeners


I see a woman standing at her kitchen window 

she’s washing dishes

lost in thought

lost in the golden light and steam 

wishing for stars. 

Friday, January 28, 2022

Anne’s email

 “53 is nothing these days. 66, I’m not so sure.”

Anne Rice in an email between she and I. 2008 

Conversation about her novels.