What if boot camp was what it was all about

the pendulum swings and
college slides
down the bunk bed post,
debunked of passion,
penny loafers, worn, on ice rolling
credits shower mortarboards
the newly commissioned officers
grow beards in battle
and salute the retail mercenaries
and baristas in berets

June Widow (after Saving Private Ryan)

If I pick her, she will be torn,
beautiful flowers, back over the pond, in a vase,
the French countryside–I’ve seen her wear it on Sundays,
the place we met–the demolished cafes–sans the coffee;
we share memory of mothers with the crash of cannons,
beyond the river where red was roses and Revlon
and knee cuts on the playground,
we left our school-teaching-selves:
like the rubble above our brothers
that collapsed our bridge home.

Goodbye Owingsville (’92), Goodbye Elementary (’94), Goodbye School (’05)

He knew others had to talk first,
had to make their move, watch his eyes
ask how he did his tricks:
slid the slide, swung the swing, how he’d fly,

He knew from his backyard porch and oak tree perch, he’d spy
them and play till supper, till dark,
they were here for T-ball, PTO, parents working late,
it was his ground, his yard, his park,

He knew how to spin, to start
the small merry-go-round,
to make you sick,
lean out, legs bound,

He knew which swing chains sound
squeak or sat high enough to glide
left jaundiced palms,
had uneven sides,

He knew where in the rocket ship tree to ride,
to hide under the trailers of special ed,
dragons guarded dungeons
and climbed the web without being wounded,

He knew that jungle gyms were more than houses founded
for girls to fix supper in or teach school,
Gary was a shorter, but stronger bully,
and one always jumps the tile cracks in school

He knew which gutter spout to climb to the roof,
teachers’ kids just played basketball,
rocks were rubies and gold,
the seriousness of his mom’s third supper call.

Greece: Six months after

A cog in the broadcasting industry;
I was there, and now, there is on my shelf
manufactured like a dollar candle unlit,
next to plush Athena and Phoebos,
books partially read, and 1500 pictures
last summer, good deal, had to grab it:
the candle, five dollars, the gods, five euros.

We yelled for the sake of yelling our favorite songs

warm and cold is the life.
The blue LCD lingers even with friends,
my friends-my (saving me from the) screen
savers, freezing, cold, heartless–
the silence of mp3s and IMs,
the rock concert, the heavy metal hanging from the lashes, lulling to sleep–
s l o w i n g
the beams of light from reaching my eyes:
the red cheeks of winter night out glow fire and wash over the goodbye with a
“goodbye” faded with l o n g i n g,
for the radio interferes with the conversations
and with the passenger-seated soul
beside me
gliding down the interstate, the back-roads, the melting, the remembering

Art History is punishing

viewing where the footprints pressed with a flare of
nothing is more important
causing nostalgia intense as the airborne stone breathed under the Athenian sun.
Ahh!
you are evil if you do not long for the return,
as if the momentary mundane is as worthless as the ruins buried beneath the tourist-packed tavernas and the crowded walks of kiosks and corn roasting

Scribbling an idea about an affair with the pool boy

sitting by the window, upstairs, next to our bed,
she envisions him dragging her vigorously onto my favorite sheets,
the navy blue ones with maroon highlights.
She grins, remembering the time she short-sheeted me and we tried to sleep on the floor and we ended up in a pillow fight.

He’s sucking the film off the water, she writes
and collecting it inside a small container that reads “We Suck Pool Service.”
(sounds like a bad porn)?she jots in the margin.
moving between the shed and the house he disappears.
Where could he be?
Is he stepping up the stairs to the door that the husband carried her across when the house closed? (Is this clich?, Stephen?)?she continues imagining the rapture of a one-hour stand.
the film would remain:
when he leaves to pick his motherless child up from day-care,
that night when the husband (help!?need name!) would arrive home,
the next day when he (hubby) wants to dive in the pool.

The teenager knocks on the bedroom door.
She allows the wood pulp to soak up her fountain ink,
before she removes the tip,
love always, your wife?she scribbles and leaves the open journal on the bed for me.
“What was your question?” she asks.
“Ma’m, did you all request the steel or composite Multi-Cell Pressure Filtration System?”