​
​In Other Words…


Slim, trim, neat grey hair offset
By an unlined Mediterranean face,
He saunters across the street with
A Sinatra shrug—shoulder to ear— 
--shoulder to ear--and opines:
“Lotta malarkey floating around here,
WHOLE lotta malarkey”… 
The white neon man flickers, beckons 
Me across the street leaving the divo 
Addressing cars, trucks, buses, hordes
Of anomalous pedestrians at Wilshire &
Hope.




​
Final Jeopardy!


In his remote, lingering limbo
he stares at the flickering light,
silent, no perfectly phrased
always correct questions
to the professorial host. His noted
wit is shadowed by this pea-soup room,
his breath assisted by the gun-metal tank
harmonizing with the television’s drone.
Nodding to his own image mirrored 
on the screen, he speaks 
for the first time in days:

“Why doesn’t that guy just go?”

“Correct!” Alex answers,
“for five hundred dollars.”





Listening to Winter

​
I remember the crunch of footsteps
in the snow of my small Pennsylvania
town, the whoosh of the wind blowing
at top speeds down the turnpike, 
through the tunnels, the scratch 
of the shovels against the cement 
walkways and driveways that never  
seemed completely free. Here in L.A.
sounds of winter are rare. Who 
hears the rare overcast day? Even
the occasional rain is quiet and brief 
as if timid, unused to making a splash 
on these soft beige beaches, these lush 
gardens and aquamarine swimming 
pools. What noise can the sun make?