3-alarm warehouse fires
can fill a neighborhood across town
with the chemical reek of lighter fluid,
but the stench mellows into the woodsy musk
of a campfire by dawn.

 

When I retired, just past midnight,

each house was a soaked briquette

waiting for the match, and now, as I

stoop for the paper, the street is lined with

rustic hunting cabins.

 

The bareback homeless guy living on a neighbor’s

porch missed a beltloop; moreover, he’s going

commando under his loose-hipped denim.

His cheery good morning shrivels

the tendrils of a stereotype twining

around my heart like kudzu.

 

Trap a roach under the Lemon Joy bottle

while washing breakfast dishes, it’ll survive

all day within that concave hemisphere.

 

Leave messages for three lawyers;

one will return the call.  Char the edges

of a treasure map in a candle;

ashes will fleck the dining room table.

 

Preschoolers love hand-drawn treasure maps.

Modern bookmobiles come with storage bins

where you can hide summer reading club

prizes.  It isn’t boring to spend the day reading

the same three picture books to 4-year-olds

if they share a pirate theme. 

 

That familiar guy at the Taco Bell drive thru

is my new next door neighbor.  His daughter can see

the spirit of the disabled man who died of a seizure

in his bathroom six weeks ago.

 

The average Children’s Librarian can take

the cast of Law and Order SVU on Celebrity Jeopardy.

 

Dr. King’s room number in Memphis was 306.

He went there to lead a Sanitation Workers’ strike.

The hotel telephone operator heard the shots,

ran into the parking lot, leaving the switchboard

unattended, and dropped to the parking lot while

suffering a heart attack.  When Dr. King’s colleagues

called to be connected to the ambulance

no one answered.

 

Barry Bonds flied out to right in the bottom of the 2nd.

PBS beats Network TV everytime.