POETRY

The White Chicken Gives a First-Hand Account
         -from an Associated Press story

I love the red
wheelbarrow
rusting
by the barn,
my sturdy
nesting place,
my refuge
the night
raccoons
laid waste
the coop,
killed all
the laying hens
but me.
 
Farmer
buried them
in the far yard,
and Laslo,
the brown dog,
dug them
back up,
nuzzled each
gray bundle
against the long
hen house
and, there,
all morning
stood guard.

Laslo,
brother of my heart.




Just Married


J U S T   M A R R I E D
sprayed in shaving cream
on the back of a blue Volkswagen Bug.

The couple inside 
is young, deliriously happy 
and in love.  Like we were 

the day we drove away
from the waves of well wishers
in that tinny, tiny Renault-10

headed who knew where
and with the rest of our lives 
to find it.

Today, we are stalled 
in this lane of serious traffic
behind the blue Bug.

We are not young, not delirious,
not in love.  We are 
just married.




Full Moon

At the distance
of your arm,
it’s the size
of an aspirin.
Take it.
Don’t wait
till morning, 
call me.