​A Man


dresses like a woman
in Newark
walking to the poetry festival
no spectacle fantasy 
of spike heels
tight-up Tinkerbell glitter

this man commands the pavement
like a Yoruba king cast in bronze 
far-looking eyes 
slant slightly in symmetrical 
face bones
sealed lips speak the indigo cool 
of discretion

this morning he donned a frock
I would wear in autumn
color of rustic leaf-spun rain 
opaque tights
mahogany lace-up ankle boots

I wonder if this man in a dress
could be straight
could be a straight man
wearing a dress
just because he likes the color
and the feel
the way I like to wear pants
sometimes
Could this be the start of fashion  
without labels?

we smile at each other
and a moment’s validation flickers
between us

I want this moment to last
but his stride glides right past
the festival door
as I grab hold the handle
with one hand 
lean back into sun and street





Rusted Houses

​
Uncle Jimmy hangs tin cans
collected from the dump
in branches of trees
for Appalachian birds
to raise their young
in suitable rusted enclosure

an unmarried miner
who spent his days
heaving to the score of metal notes
with his spindly arms 
up against a face of coal

he picked up those cans
and strung them high

as a child from the city
I used to wonder why
he would broadcast
the trash like that

whirled into a galaxy 
of chirping constellations