There are zero places in the world named
Compassion. There are four places named
Hell. Too many? Too few? There are zero
places in the world named Empathy. Two
places named Hate. And though there are
forty-three Paradise and eighteen Jesus,
there is no Heaven. There are zero places
in the world named Racist, but five named
Bigot! All of them pronounced “be’ go” so
they don’t count. To some it will come as no
surprise there’s one Straight in Oklahoma.
Around the world there are twenty-six
Gay. Indiana and Ohio have one Patriot;
of the twenty places in the world named
Freedom, the US claims seventeen. Can you
believe there is no Deception? With three
each it’s a tie between Happy and Sad.
Fortunately there’s no Boredom. And though
Friendly numbers two more than you, that’s
no reason to give up, Lonesome.
                        

I like to feed the squirrels
that run around in front 
of St. Vincent De Paul.

My old boyfriend was ex-marine,
arranged his clothes 
according to their color.

Before I was evicted
I fed a squirrel every day
from my kitchen window.

I’m on my way to meet
my son and go with him
to his first AA meeting.

I was about the same age 
he is now when 
I became an alcoholic.

I worry about what happened
to that squirrel, you know, because 
she was pregnant.
                        

A pile of bleached clam shells.
One unknown caller after another.

The low clouds weigh nothing.
A tuft of fur blown by the wind.

Yet their pressure is relentless.
The breath of a wolf in pursuit.

Color grows tense, vigilant.
Every word is slick with rain.

Rocked by sirens, by silence.
The pallid hours filter through us.