Poems

  • John Keats, Home Run Hitter

    I sit, legs crossed,
    pencil twitching, trying
    to be John Keats
    as three engines thrum,
    mechanics sling shouts
    over drilling, their voices popping
    like 95 mile per hour fastballs
    in a catcher’s mitt.
    “DIDJA SEE— GAME?”
    “— DODGERS BLEW IT!”
    “LISTEN— CHOPPY
    TRANSMISSION!”
    I sit, and swing.

  • A Cracked Vase

    Almost dawn
    on a Spanish beach,
    one moonbeam
    lingered, not wanting

    to leave us.
    The exact intensity of that light
    the precise porcelain of my face
    can never happen again.