the last tower

A smoky old town

We can two-wheel our way to a cleaner, healthier Pittsburgh

Post War

He shuffles down the aisle
cramped with chewing gum crack men
business money on their minds
ruffling newsprint in their hands

touching the pilled headrests
on either side of the carpeted balance beam
He glances row right
next row left
next right again
on forward to ensure we know the rules
design safety feigned

His white short-sleeved collared shirt
hangs
from His shoulders as a vail
from the permed hair of a thrice married bride

each morning
prior to any wake-up calls
and continental breakfast hordes
He wakes to sterile silence
the next city and its hotel and its
ironing board already displayed
at the base of the firm sleeper king

shirt hung
slacks splayed
shower taken
in time for a hot iron
no steam
He finishes brushing toothpasteless
warm water and comb only

His crown of hair
and buffs the faux patent leather
of His D-widths
like an addict trying to revive his first fix

iron hot
it finds the old wrinkle scars
repeated folds
and attempts in vain
to thin the paper dull white fabric
again
this moment
between the last of the night
and earliest of morning
just before birds and their song find each other

He and His wheeled bag
find the accessible ramp
past the automatic sliding doors
into the still morning air

He slings a spring jacket over the right shoulder
and past one ear
of two
where songbirds haven't a song now either

asheville

wheres i grews up

Most 'livable' for all

Let Barack Obama's call for racial unity take root here

Bicycles On The River

There must have been hundreds of them
white rounded triangular shapes
bobbing in the placidity
gulls,
too far west or too far south
bringing shore beauty to the waters of
the Monongahela.

They seemed nonchalant
towards the landlocked songbirds
chirping stronger than a meager lilt –
a willful effort
to crack the stubborn frost
that stays this asphalt twice hardened
by March, the lioness.

They seemed to know
with sunrise
not quite present
that the thin air would later give way
that day
to softening sun
and malleable soil.

stanley park

What Cook Knew

the naked and limbless snag
thrust silently
towards the old growth canopy silhouette
this terrestrial puncture wound
ceased growing the day
my grandmother began to lavish smiles
and yet the tree stood
the blighted chestnut
twisted and pale
a giant's horn
called upon the pale gray autumn sky
to bring the wet wind
to remove us from its company

death had long since been paid
its worth in unbounded rest
and yet the tree stood
shroud in patches of lichen
and patterned in scrawls
from countless lovestruck
and heedless
layered so thickly
the names and doting
heartshaped lines
were themselves
a wind worn woven bark

I stood there
left arm outstretched to touch
cool
hard
smooth
with countenance cast to
where there once were branches
knowing how all trees will fall
but at a pace
we have long forgotten
to understand

panther hollow