Channeling Garfunkel

You take a break
from trying to like
the vegetarian ravioli
she whipped up at her place
to say a trademarked name
and turn another female off--
probably two.

"I like background noise,"
she protests between bites.
You mention the crickets
the window fan, the creaking
of old wood in her Victorian
and the voice that you're using
for no apparent good.
"Not on the table, then,"
she states in singular compromise
though the hockey puck's still quiet--
only listening, recording words
without her innocent blue light.

You think the next day after work
in your shower, where you focus best
that from seven years of living alone
silence to you is silver--
not a perfect gold, but close.

Silence is waiting for an ambush at dawn--
war paint donned; no prisoners.
Silence is an Irish goodbye
when it's warranted.
Silence is a humbled contrarian
biting his tongue 'til it bleeds.
Silence is the comfort
of purging your apartment
and tossing out mementos
with no one there to see you cry.
Silence is the black towel you lay out
to protect the sheets when necessary
for modified passion in the moment.
Silence is what makes you appreciate
the least important fingers
on your most important hand.
Silence is giving keys to your lover
yet receiving none in return.
Silence is the slight hangover
caused by a splash of weekday wine.
Silence is the peace
that calms you after labor
in the heat and in the dirt
and alongside those who loathe you.
Silence is what you hear at Union meetings
when you know better
than to voice your concerns.

Silence is the list
of heartaches you don't write.
Silence is when it ends
as it should
instead of well.
Silence is a friend
who is never inconsistent.
The same applies to family
since silence knows your blood.

No Backsies

A laundry bag's slung
over my shoulder
when I notice local news.
There's another smattering
of spider plant clippings
on the sidewalk
adjacent to the lot
where I park my ten-year-old truck
every day.
I've given away
two batches of them
to friends in search of life
neatly plucked
from the water-filled mason jars
where I housed them
in my kitchen's abundant sunlight.
My boots are heavy
but I descend three flights
since I won't sleep knowing
the rain's all that's keeping them alive.

I stand at the sink
rinsing the dirt from their long, striped leaves
and wonder if this is how my mother
acquired the ones she had when I was young.
The jars are filled with water again
and I place each plant in its own
separate receptacle, back on the rack
where the sun will land tomorrow
while I'm an hour south
earning a wage to fund my operation.

"They clean the air,"
a friend told me once
withholding the blatantly obvious--
a distant critic who's never wrong
regardless and begrudgingly.

I light my second smoke of the night
after pouring another G'n'T
pondering the identity
of the scoundrel who'd desecrate
one of God's creations
by tossing bits and pieces
to a dirty curb.

Hypocrisy's for rookies.

Scaloppini

It's taken four days
for the smell of chicken cutlet
to exit my apartment.
I made nine packages
about 17 lbs
over the course of two hours
the night before a family pig roast
on Labor Day Weekend
since not all who eat meat
like pork
or are lost.

The tinfoil tray
I'd selected the day prior
in a grocery aisle I'd ignored before
was perfectly sized
for my offering.
Between breading and frying
I thought to bring
horded Chinese takeout containers
the next day
so people could take leftovers
back to their refrigerators.

By the end it was a rosemary encrusted
free-for-all, green dots of oregano
littering the counter.
I'd left the pans to their own devices
and a few morsels were burnt
due to my absent tongs.
In my attempt to right error
I became my mother
eating the dark filets
to hide the evidence
spare the diners
make sure it all would be eaten.
In a few bites
I almost grew up.


Currently reading:
"Father and Son" by Larry Brown.