My father taught me caution

My father taught me caution and raised me a safe son,
but when I moved into the open west,
his guard lessened like a policeman dozing
in the afternoon.

And I was not prepared for evening--
I've seen wind bare this city, tear shutters
and shingles. I've seen rust swallow
homes, ghost towns. Oh, but I enjoy
the nakedness of the flatlands

and its cold gusts.
I live for that hollow rustling.
I live broken in and unprotected, now.

I have worn through two decades

I have worn through two decades
the way grease and sweat rub
into my white undershirts.

The clothes I bought are threadbare now
and the food I've stolen
no longer fills my stomach.

There is no loss, however,
only comfort in what is used up.
I'd like to hear my voice, once, unrecorded

though my throat is dry now,
here's to a new time of wholeheartedness
found in the vapor of tea, then crushed ice.

And a second laughing toast
to the undeserved health we find
always in our ribcage and lungs,

where we breathe like the rise
and fall of bike pedals, and say again
'bring light in the end'

when we raised our sandy arms

when we raised our sandy arms to watch them
glow in the golden hour, we knew they wouldn't warm,
but we'd remember the look of it, at least. as I do now.
and when we took sharp swallows from the yard's hose,
we didn't care for the summer, metal taste.  we were romantics
at the age of eleven, we made our own 'sentiment'
and we strove to be remarkable.

I refrain from the old faces

I refrained from the old faces
and the stretched, corded phone
leaving each untouched and unanswered.

A new refrain is singing
that love is found like coins--
raked, gained, and horded.

But sleep tonight in confidence
that I'll return home without appointments.
A clean calendar for january.

A tired woman and an old friend
came with shears to cut their wires from me,
but we watched as they fell as cobwebs.

when we first sat

when we first sat to recollect and reform
the year had already been opened
in mid-june
like a paring knife into a stuffed envelope
and september was dull because it held no surprises.
stand now to toast
a new romance of brown packages,
dry paper christened by cold juice

voice

You laughed when my voice sounded
like Dylan or a drunk washing machine,
but it turned to coughs late last week.

And you turned left on our drive across
the hill of pine, while I turned to my sleeve and coughed.

Wear white and we'll drip paint the ceiling,
black and we'll splash down on the floor.
Call the doctor for an antibiotic.

You laugh at my steam whistle breaths.
Let me hang your coat upon the doorknob.

plastering

Leaves for the lake

I moved my mattress

I was twenty-seven

I was twenty-seven in the sunlight, seventeen in the shade
and I'll be seventy years older when the creditors are paid.
I spent two years behind a front-wheel drive
behind a semi, the northbound I-35.
And four licking a magazine page,
which turned and wrinkled.