POSTAL SONNET


Today’s mail: an invitation to join 
Arizona’s liveliest burial society.  
Another illegible, handwritten note 
offering to landscape the front yard.

A letter from my shrink informing me he’s
closing his practice.  He extends best wishes
for my future health & happiness.
I don’t panic.  I suppose I’m cured.

I’ll miss our sessions, discussing poetry 
& joking about a better life through chemistry.
Now who will answer my inconsequential
questions, the ones nobody else cares about?

Did you know in Eastern psychology,
the word “personality” means scar tissue?





SPIRIT ANIMAL


My animal?  The platypus,
of course.  Not the penguin,
too black & white.  Not the wolverine,
ferocious & smelly.  The horse?
No, why share with all those
white women who call themselves
Nightwind?  The platypus reminds 
me of me, his ambivalence,
his moral versatility, his head
like a furry spatula. Did you know
the platypus boasts a poisonous spur
on each thigh?  Nerve damage,
paralysis, death.  Welcome
to our biome.  His spirit 
animal?  Me, of course.





CHAIR DANCE


After four beers, I steer out of the parking garage,
chair-dancing to “Bitches Brew,” the live version, 
what the liner notes call “extraterrestrial Dixieland” 

& somehow I run a stop sign.  At least that’s what 
the motorcycle cop tells me as I hand him my driver’s license.
He looks about thirteen, his little face peering out 
from under the visor of the gold helmet.

I’m glad my wife never uses clichés, never says
if life gives you lemons, make lemonade
or every cloud has a silver lining.  

She does believe young cops target old drivers,
an ageist conspiracy that needs exposing.
She got a speeding ticket last week
& swears the traffic cop wore his cap backwards.

But every cloud has a silver lining.
We’ll attend Defensive Driving School, bonding 
together as all us oldies raise our hands
when the instructor asks, “How many of you
here consider yourselves excellent drivers?