Plastic domes shield almost thawed cinnamon buns.

A sausage warmer sends steam into the air above a

couple eating facsimile eggs, yogurt from a plastic

cup and something resembling bacon strips.

Not much conversation among the ten people sitting

at orange tables crowded into a small room. One

man, eating alone, stares into space, a chunk of

melon speared on a throwaway fork. It’s the long

drive ahead or the business meeting in an hour

or memories of yesterday left behind or concern

about what waits down the road.

Take your pick and put it on a paper plate.

Hard boiled eggs, an apple, toast burned

around the edges, hard butter in a thumb-sized

container to be spread by a plastic knife that

bends when you try to use it. Just chew the

butter.

Bon appetit!

Breakfast on the road.

On the 5th of April in ’92
the air was fresh and the sky was blue
and I didn’t know what I thought I knew
and I said some things about me and you
that were not exactly, perfectly true
and I knew you’d say that we were through,
but I can’t take it all back now.

I didn’t think I’d regret that day,
but in hindsight now I have to say
I made a mistake and I’m willing to pay
whatever it takes to find a way
to bring you home and have you stay.
How can my words begin to convey
how much I miss you both.

So, please consider my heartfelt plea.
I think if we talked we both could see
a possible way that we might be
so happy together and jointly agree
that our parting is not a fait accompli,
and we don’t have to fight and disagree.
Just bring my dog back home.

Of course, I miss you, too, my dear.
I’m so alone when you’re not here.
I wake each day with a nagging fear
that you’ll turn away, not wanting to hear
that my life’s a wreck; I’m being sincere.
I promise I will not domineer
if you’ll just bring my Fido home.

It’s good to get this off my chest
as I close this note with a simple request:
pat Fido and give him my very best,
tell him to eat and get his rest,
that this parting is something I truly detest,
and he’s the best dog in the whole southwest —
and I hope you’ll come back, too.

Today will be like no other day
in the long journey of creation.
The sun will appear,
people will come and go,
laugh and curse,
rejoice and weep.
A bird will sing from
the laurel bush, and
the mountain will look
out over the brown desert.
I will pray for human
understanding and kindness
and feel a stab in my heart
at the depth of our insensitivity.
But this day will be like no other
because today I will hum a tune
and hear your harmony in my
soul.  When I walk through the
garden, I will see your smile
in brilliant colors and soft
shadows.  I will speak your
name to the wind, and the
world will be embraced
in blessing.

I am always my very best friend.
I laugh at my jokes, stay true to the end.
When trouble shows up, I’m the first to defend
the motives and deeds of my long-standing friend.

But today I learned a very sad fact.
I thought all along my best friend would act
to uphold our agreement, honor the pact,
but when push came to shove, he didn’t react.

So now I’m wondering just what do to.
Disappointment is great, options are few.
Shoud I confront his neglect, say that we’re through?
I’m really confused; I haven’t a clue.

He’ll probably try to make full amends.
He’ll say, “This is not a grave mortal sin.”
But I fear he’ll forget and do it again.
I can no longer be my very best friend.

The moral comes clear as the story ends.
It’s hard to be your own best friend.
So, to myself this counsel I gladly extend:
Try and cat or a dog as your next best friend.

 

 

If you were reading a book, you
wouldn’t notice.
If the TV was blaring out the latest
news bulletin and you were taking in
all the allegations, anger and acrimony,
you would miss it.

Today the fabric of sky split,
releasing great globs of wet snow,
puffy white parachutes floating into
backyards, onto wide-brimmed hats,
landing gently on bald heads.
Soundless wonder.

Fat raindrops rattle the window panes.
Prickly north wind plays an eerie tune
as it whistles through cracks in the
back door.  But elegant snow, sophisticated
snow, falls into human life without
announcement or approval.  It claims
residence on cedars and catclaw vines
with regal grace, then waits to be admired
and photographed, the celebrity in town.

Dogs bury their noses and plow through
the soft mixture of cloud and water,
children turn somersaults and giggle
when snow sneaks under collars or
lands on noses.  An old man in a
wheelchair watches from his living
room window, waving and wishing.

No one heard it arrive.
No one will hear its gradual departure.
Soundless snow.

In the course of this brand new, shiny day,
I plan to sing and dance and play
and somewhere along the charted way
I’ll have a thought or two.

I trust that the thought will not interfere
with my plans to bring joy and outlandish cheer
to all who are far and all who come near
in this remarkable day.

I’ve worked on this plan since ’98.
My wife and my dog simply could not wait
to see the results and celebrate.
They left me a month ago.

Shortsighted, I think.  She said I was weird.
She told the police how she greatly feared
that my sense had long ago disappeared.
She left the cat behind!

I consulted my guru and plotted the stars,
bought a box of imported Cuban cigars,
contacted the papers, began my memoir.
Everything fell into place.

But enough of that!  The time has come.
Please sound the bugles and beat the drums.
This sad old world is about to become…
Oh, no!
I feel a thought coming on.
Will somebody take this cat!

Laptop is open, fingers poised,
TV is off, limited noise,
ready to write astonishing prose
when, as every writer knows,
nothing happens!

No words fall sweetly on the page.
I nod and doze, perhaps a stage
all writers face as they mature,
but of this fact I’m very sure:
this stinks!

They call it “writer’s block”, I think,
but I suspect there is a link
to this odd thing called climate change.
I have been feeling rather strange.
That’s it!

A rabbit’s foot might do the trick.
I’ll browse through Amazon and pick
a tin foil hat that can wear
to keep the neutrons from my hair.
I’ll write!

I was released just yesterday.
They took my hat and charm away,
but said the treatment helped a lot,
that it was not a climate plot, so
I’m back!

Laptop open, fingers poised.
Who cares about unwanted noise?
I put two radishes in my ears,
my mind is sharp and very clear.
Let’s write!

 

Gray clouds abandon the turbulent sky
and fall to the earth, precious
drops descending, as if escaping
a grasping cosmic hand
wanting to hold life
to itself.

Brittlebush dances in the swirling wind,
waiting to be washed of the
dust and drought of the
desert, thirsting,
longing.

In a few hours the rain subsides
and the refreshed desert glistens in
sun  rays breaking through
reluctant clouds, thrusting
light through jagged
openings in the
softening sky.

Dust settles.  Mesquites breathe clean,
moist air.  Desert flowers stand a little
taller, glow a little brighter.  Ground
animals peek from deep burrows,
drawn by the smell of water.
All is as it should be.
As it should be.

Very early this morning, while walking along
the edge of first light, I became
conscious of a wonderous reality:
clouds falling on my
shoulders.

 

They dropped from the sky disguised as gentle
strands of water, light rain
polishing the streets and
reflecting, like a mirrored surface,
traffic lights and high beams
of passing cars.

 

Liquid cloud, best received as a gift
and worn with humility, is a touch of
grace that washes away
sanctimony and self indulgence
as it drapes a piece of heaven
around often reluctant
shoulders.

 

This morning, much to my delight,
clouds fell upon my shoulders
and wished me well on my
journey from darkness to light.
I was grateful for the
company.

My dog insists on a morning walk
about 5:30.  That’s A.M.
It’s still dark.
I comply.

My dog is determined to smell every
rock and every bush in every yard.  She
looks at me and says,
“Stand there and be
patient.”
I comply.

My dog leaves her natural calling card
in the neighbor’s yard,
turns and stares at me.
“Well, pick it up.”
I comply.

My dog lays at my feet when I sit in my
recliner in the family room.
She whacks me on my foot
with her heavy paw until
I rub her on her back leg.
Whack.
I comply.

My dog loves to chase a ball in the park.
Now, though, she’s old with less energy.
When I throw it, she flops down on the
grass and looks back at me.
“Well, go get it.”
I comply.

I am trained.