FIFTH POST

KEEPERS OF THE FIRST FIRE

Last night after the thunderstorm struck,

shook the house in its foundation

and winds tore trees from their roots,

I sat alone in the sudden quiet,

like first man huddled

in his here-and-now darkness

with his yearning for comfort                                              

and I knew that time had not erased need,

knew too how we all go on

day-to-day as collectors of comfort,

minders of memory,                                  

and like those keepers of the first fire,                     

living with longing                                                                     

sewn into leathered hearts.

LOVE, ITALIAN STYLE

Sixty-five was in her rear view mirror, but

she was still in possession

of fine olive figure and flame

her stone-cutting, Carrara ancestors

had carved in her 

as she strode into the palace of vanities

to have her hair painted auburn,

nails done the color of blood,

and whisper secrets

she would only tell there.

I tell ya, she said.  He’d be at my place

every damn night if I allowed it. 

I had to tell him,

‘What do you think this is,

Jiffy Lube?’

Okay, so I’m letting him come over later. 

We’ll head to Mimi’s to eat,

rent the new Kevin Spacey movie

from Blockbuster,

and then go home.

Finally, when repairs were finished

she looked in the mirror,

liked what she saw, hiked

her eyebrows twice, smiled to herself,

then said

Who knows,

maybe he’ll get lucky tonight.

 

THE CHILDREN OF SAN MIGUEL

In that moment when the young boy

offered a ride in his wheelbarrow of rust

I stopped, gave him my heart

in a smile

blind classical guitarist

saw gypsy flamenco angels ascend

hands of washerwomen
healed in the town’s baptismal font

the burrito and Coke

became a feast in a wandering desert

and Mexico blossomed blue

for the sun to loosen braided locks of gold

and for me to fall in love again, see

the face of my grandchildren

in every child.