this morning in the rain I chased your car 
halfway down the street intent on ranting
about pots and baking pans greasing up
the sink and sheets of Fed-Ex bubble wrap 
obscuring piles of mail and your grey coat
invading my green chair but I wasn’t
fast enough to catch your rearview glance
so I punched your cell to sear your day				
with guilt for how I felt put-upon/
crowded-out/ and all those pent-up things 
I never say until they burn and how
I could forgive if you were off to work
to shop to pray not out to lunch with friends
but I struck delete when I recalled 
your kiss good-bye and words we vowed to say
(Let us be kind) when love’s reduced to sniping/
blaming/hurt and smallest things conspire
to ruin sunsets on a Maui beach
or walks around our autumned neighborhood 
so this is just to let you know I’ve scrubbed 
the pans/re-hung your coat/cleared out debris
from my morning’s discontent practicing
Let me be kind again and then again

I could spit! I shouted in his face.
Turning paying guests away!
He brushed that couple off without
so much as, Maybe we could find ….

When will he learn? The Census earns
five years of room and board,
but lugging wood and curing hay,
learning isn’t on his mind.

Of course I’d carve a plan. I’d hearth
an extra rug to keep her bundle warm.
He and that soft-eyed man would share
a bed. And when it came her time, 

we’d march those smelly shepherds far
beyond the barn and hush those wings
and aggravating songs. They drive 
a dreamer from his restless sleep.

And the publicity we’d glean!
A destination site, at least.
Not every day do morning stars
and cameled Kings ruckus through

our town. We’d be well-mapped,
well-known for hospitality, 
not the butt of half-lame jokes.
We lost the chance. I’m furious!

Know what’s worse? That dotty neighbor	
with the rotting manger molding hay
lets strangers muck across his barn,
dropping coins to say they’ve been.

Now he roams his days across the hills,
singing sounds like tidings, peace,
and human hearts. Who talks like that?
I’d like to know. Who talks like that?

I’m confused. I thought when thistle filled
the Copper Triple Tube, we had a deal. 
You’d breakfast in tranquility, spread notes
around our cul-de-sac, return 
for evening snacks, and sing, of course, 
your best for me. But I thought wrong.

You’ve scavenged through my annuals, 
electing seeds – prosaic and alive –  
in lieu of mixtures trendy and refined; 
refused to jump from ground to rim 
before the winter storms set in 
to shut my garden down.

I’ve cut my loss and hurt, and stashed 
the copper with my thistle sacks.
See the note tacked on the vacant pole:
We’re closed. Gone south. Enjoy the seedless snow.