after Galway Kinnell
 
I think it’s okay to eat oatmeal alone,
but today I’ve asked Galway Kinnell 
to breakfast, as he once asked Keats. 
My normal companions for oatmeal
are Dad, Mom and El. Dad 
taught me to add banana and soymilk, 
Mom said cut off the tips of the fruit 
because bugs like to live there,
El said cook the oats slow 
then blend in banana and yogurt 
and slivered almonds and cinnamon, 
by which time it’s almost not oatmeal. 
Galway says any way you want to make 
oatmeal is fine, just don’t eat alone.
                        

Bees swarm my thoughts,
call me as they called 
the ladybug who rode up
to the office where I work.
Was she inside the envelope 
nestled with Blind Huber,
Nick Flynn’s poems about bees, 
or did she climb on 
in the postal truck? 
I ripped the plastic open, 
spilled the book, and she 
appeared, then flitted 
back to Huber. 
With a blue glass mug 
I trapped her on a card, 
rode six floors down, 
found a geranium plant
across the street,
nudged her with 
a copper-colored key. 
Was it because 
the metal looked like honey
that she clung to it? 
I talked her out 
onto the green leaves, 
a white-haired woman
in a purple face mask
scolding and cajoling 
an insect, seeking release.