for Emily Hilbert

yep. it's happening. she can feel it
in her bones, her skin, her eyes,
her butt, her aching knees and head

she's like a fine race car that's
running a little low on oil
a touch short on engine coolant

there's a hint of sluggishness
in the straightaway. a wobble, 
a sway in the tight corners

where she used to cut so close
the grass would shudder
pull back to give her an inch

but no more. no more fast laps
and victory dances. coming in 
second is good enough, good enough

she's more replacement parts than oem
been repaired and repainted so much
she doesn't even recognize herself

those rare moments when she looks
in the rearview mirror, she sees
a familiar stranger looking back

looking back across some hard races,
stiff competition, even a crash or two
when the wheels came off. yes sir

those times when the wheels came off
and hell came close to claiming her
and still she walked away. just walked away

maybe it's time for that vintage chassis
to settle into a warm garage, safe from
wind, rain, snow, oil slicks, idiot drivers

it may be time, but you know...
the oil's not a full quart low
and the engine won't overheat 

if she blasts that little sweetheart
just once more around the track
once more around the track 

(requested topic: aging)

for Tad Richards

the morning light in the atelier
is dim, filtering through a window 
more dirt than glass anymore

it's pretty much what you'd expect
works finished, or waiting to be,
scattered tubes of half-used paints

and what of the artist
risen before the sun to stroll
to the boulangerie a block away

then back past the fruit stand
where he finds clementines
early for the season, but ripe

by the time he reenters his room
the coffee has finished brewing
thick, and dark as the "raisin noire"

he's been using with such stinginess
trying to make it last through 
at least a dozen more paintings

but art can wait. he sets up
his daily still life of coffee cup
croissant, clementine, paté

crosses himself twice—once for luck
once for all the girls he's loved—
sighs and begins with a mixed bite

of everything before him, 
a sort of mélange a trois
to get his creative mood on

he laughs softly at his little joke
and wonders who he would paint today
if he could choose "une seule"

(requested topic: breakfast)