The
Lame
Can't walk on his foot
But he can walk through his dream

red blue
and
green
water lilies
unfold
and
move the
wind parade
through
our
temple souls

Outskirts Denver
highway panic
Road pac man

Find those walls kid's
it's past time
Four should do
but the roof is optional

Pull in
one car
Three puddles

No accountability here
no sane mind
No innocent persuasion

Red light haven
Named panorama
shape shifters
Cracked blinds
cancelled glances
One room
infinite timelines
Leave ours with the others

On our third date you forgot
your diaphragm;
the infant died,

it was best you said,
babies are wormy
cats, always sick.

I  think of you
when women
with high

heeled black boots
walk past and their
***** jut like Scottish hills;

you are gone but I feel you
in my arm crook, still,
as winter’s bird.

It is hard to say father;
the thought of you stumbles through me when I see
a Gerber baby food jar or a wooden pop crate.
Once you came to mind when I saw a Polish flag
on TV; that is humorous because
the only Pole I know is a pale man at the gym
whose left eye is shaped like a rotten pear.
Do you still burn your fingers when you
fall asleep smoking in a recliner?  I hope
you still do not trim your fingernails while
sitting on the toilet stool; that seems so un-American.
Today is your eighty-fourth birthday;
I hope wherever you are you do not think of me.

I gather smells from
the garden near
the well
where
every drop drank
will be worth
my toil.

I realize  that when you asked me to  feed your two calicos
while vacationing, I wasn’t given title to  pluck four large
tomatoes  from  your perfectly trained  vines.

The tomatoes were Christmas red, unbruised
and husky. It seemed criminal and unfair
to my palate not to devour them
by dusk the day I stole them;

in my shallow defense
both of your cats
repeatedly hissed
at me when fed.