If only I could relive the joy
in overhearing her gossip with galpals
but my ability to repress ain’t what it used to be.
The walls of that Jericho fell
one of the days that the past arrived. 

I knew he ran
with the wolves.
I saw him sneaking out
one night under a
shady moon and he
looked at me
looking at him. 

In Anticipation of My Next Bad Decision 

My therapist says I have a drinking problem
and calls it a form of insanity. He compares it
to a helium balloon I expect to stay grounded

without a string tying it to anything solid. He says
I should try to get some exercise in the winter
when I tend to be depressed, so tonight

I’m going to shadow box in the garage
by the light of a lamp my wife and I never used.

The first time we met, he was loping up the shadowy path behind the house.  I was splitting kindling in the oak grove.  I saw him first—a graceful rusty red banner, from arrow nose to white-tipped tail, angular ears and chin, frosted cheek tufts.  When he saw me, our gazes locked:  his face, simple, sad, sympathetic, his yellow eyes zealous, vibrant. 

He smells of hickory smoke and berries.
This smile is unfamiliar, in his palm he holds
a wildflower, she can’t name it but it’s beautiful.
A gift for a girl special to no one. 

Non sequiturs stalk me.
They pounce at any pregnant pause
in my run-on consciousness.
Yes, I know its all caps MY FAULT—
after all I did graduate work
in evasive studies … 

Unexpectedly, I catch
my reflection in a mirror.
Is that woman me?
My life slips away.
I imagine soaring mountains,
icy snow I seldom see.
I glimpse a snow leopard,
soft paws and fur of white. 

She swims in the river of memory
where she embraces him,
smells the change of seasons in her hair
& the ripening cacao. 

Am I the only soul aware of these other ghosts?
Maybe it’s because I’m new here.
Maybe I’ll adapt, meld into a lifeless trance,
slip into my silent, interminable self. 

Rachel In Her Swimsuit 

I see my wife, Rachel, in her swimsuit
and I feel fine, she's waving to me
from the edge of the blue spruce pines
she puts a blowgun to her lips
firing a series of darts
that pop each of the tires of the bus