Today beside the ice cream place I saw
A sturdy toddler oak rooted in
A downspout sediment bed. It stood there raw
And bare with seven brown leaves on spare
Branches like it belonged exactly there.
Because it did. Its size declared, “I’ve
Been here through two summers, and this is where
I plan to keep donating acorns and thrive.
I thought about the oak sapling I got
At graduation and how my Grandma made
Sure it was watered during the dry and hot
Summer when I left home and she stayed.
Grandma prayed for me and guarded that tree–
Her way of hugging me across a sea.

This humble root that sits in a basket on
The microwave waits patiently while sprouting
New life. How long has it been dug and gone
From its cozy burrow? Was it shouting
With all the other spuds being displaced
Forcibly from their dirt-bound domicile,
Saying, “No! We don’t even taste
Good without ample salt and a pile
Of butter!” These are the hypothetical scenes
I dream up as I run the peeler across
Old-eyed taters wondering what it means
That I anthropomorphize a tuber’s home loss.
This soup, though, should taste yummy, I think.
There’s salt, garlic, cream, and wine to drink.

God, grant me the serenity to give
Over the fake ID I have with your
Name and birthday (December twenty-five
Duh) dodgily printed beneath a poor
Photographic representation resembling
My likeness. I’m finding the bouncers guardianing the door
To the control room aren’t trembling
When I present my credentials. I think I bore
Them now with my insistance about the kind-
Of-a-big-deal I am. The other night
One of them just waved me in. “Go find
Yourself,” he said. “Just get out of my sight.”
Those guys are so vain. I mean, anyone can see.
They probably think this poem is about me.

A dry and warm house is a huge deal.
I think about when I learned the basic needs
In school–water, food, shelter. To feel
Accepted–that was a biggie. A person succeeds
Because she works hard, right? With the right
Amount of gumption and elbow grease, she
Can pull her bootstraps and weight, fight
Off any hardship here in the land of no free
Lunches (no such thing). Come January One
I’m reading renters with no cash or jobs
Will see their beds, clothes, and photos done
The service of a sidewalk escort and unturnable doorknobs.
Please tell me how in the place we find each other
We who could help say, “Am I keeper of my brother?”

My son confirms my penchant for perfection
Must be a genetic contribution to my
Psyche since when I finally ceded protection
Of the squeezy paint bottle for him to try
To fill in the snowman’s face with white, he quickly
Grew upset when the small triangle meant
For the carrot nose blanched pale and sickly
Beneath some out-of-bounds tint. I went
To the kitchen for a paper towel assuring
My two-year-old emotion replica all
Would be well–remembeing repeated bouts during
Piano lessons wanting to quit and bawl.
Leonard Cohen wrote about the un-win,
The cracked everything, how the light gets in.

We took a walk today and unleashed our two
Boys from the double stroller — it’s nuts
How quickly there’s a phase change, and you
Say to yourself, “Dang, their little butts
Sure do move fast.” Noah kept running
Ahead, then running back shouting, “Look!
It’s my family!” It was one of those stunning
Sweet moments you want to fold in a book.
The 4pm sun swept sideways on slim tree
Trunks, and the sky was that clear heartache blue,
And our two little nuggets had Melissa and me
Running and bending more than we wanted to.
It was perfect, this dusk circle of we,
A plain miracle I never thought I’d see.

Last night I dreamed about a kid, tall
With big curly orange-yellow hair–
Auditioning for a school where I taught, and all
His rep was soprano bel canto. There
We’re colleagues there I’d never met, and I told
Them I thought the student would do better singing
Mezzo. When I asked him to change keys, he fold-
ed his arms over his chest and started wringing
His hands. His brow furrowed and flushed. I said,
“I know this isn’t how you planned this to go,
But we just want to help you be you. Instead
Of stratospheric stuff, let’s look at something low.
I woke up before we could make the change,
For me though, I’m paying attention to my range.

Some days I dream about how we could
Move to London, find a flat or part
Of a house on a close close to an ancient wood
Or anywhere near a park. We’d explore art
Galleries and eat cake in the crypt
At St. Martin and tool around the town on bikes,
Cross the river and see a play with a script
That I wrote. We’d travel north and take long hikes
Along sea cliffs.Then we’d build a fire
And drink hot chocolate and whisky. Back in town
We’d go to work and school, sing in a choir,
And drink pints in the pub, the Something and Crown.
We’ll go to the market for bread and leeks and flowers
And have soup for supper and talk and laugh for hours.

I started writing a poem about dreaming
During a pandemic and immediately I felt
Like such an asshole because people are screaming
These days on the inside and out at the hands dealt
To them. I can breathe. There’s heat on. My cup
Has coffee in it. What other jackpots lie
Ignored around this palace? Something’s up
With our jacked American brains– that thousands die
Today, and folks are yelling about any-
Thing besides getting people safe and healed.
Our numb souls shout, ” Screw the many!
Let my alienable M.O. be revealed!”
Kyrie eleison–this hating fight time.
Christe eleison–this awaiting light time.

Compassion comes from Latin: “suffer with,
Together.” This is why I’ve often failed
To enter wounded space–believed the myth
That feeling pain would trap me locked and jailed
Inside the cell of hurt in which I see
My neighbor. What if I go in there only
To be dissolved in all that wailing? A key
Must be available to tidily
Unlatch this door, and then the captive stands
And walks outside. But no–the key’s for me
To turn the bolt and join with open hands.
We sit behind these bars and sing a psalm,
And captured here we ring the air with calm.