they won't let me out of this wheelchair
I thought it would be fun to ride around
I wanted my father to push me
now I don't know where he went
and these people I don't know tell me I can't
I can't get up and walk around
I can't go outside the gate
I can't go home
I can't see my father
I don't want to eat but they tell me I have to
I have to take a bath
I have to change my clothes
I have to comb my hair
I have to go to bed 

She struggles to pull up documentaries
about unseen forces, IPAD vs HP.
The running joke is everything’s contagious:
shingles, infectious laughter, cold heart drama
& the love for stray cats that don’t belong to you
but visit from time to time all the same. 

A tourist tries to remain cynical
in the presence of a gray-bearded holy man
who sits bare chested, cross-legged,
in the shade of a drooping banyan tree.

But his sarcasm barely makes the journey
from his tongue to his wife's ear
when it's muted by the peaceful aura,
spiritual cadence emanating from the other. 

I spoke with my father on the phone,
A static connection, his voice in shadow.
The yard is a play of ice and dirt.
Today it is hard to see shed for shadow,
Dirt for ice, or to hear a voice
No matter how closely I look. 

It has,
always,
the brutal
urgency
of a real
pony.
Thick in the brow.
Snout buried
against
that insistent
ragtime. 

Rachel plunged one foot into the cool stream and the silky muck embraced her, welcomed
her, and she stepped all the way in. Her toes turned into tuberous roots and sank into muck.
Her arms sprouted strong, fibrous stems, and reached skyward. 

The light bulbs are out.

Rent is 3 weeks away.

He cherishes scraps of aluminum

foil & trimmed nails like a

saving grace. 

She favors his artsy crew
sailing through sunken dreams
rising like birds upwards over a mountain. 

There was no time for
their surveyor's circle. 

I remember my boot sinking into
first snow, a breathtaking surprise
for a tyke just bumping into life.