Lost Childhood Sketch

Something out of myth,
this strange creature
craning its neck to see
how it sprawls on the page.

Its mouth lacks teeth
and proportion: an “O”
stamped loosely on its face,
overlapping the eyes.

Tottering precariously
on one of many feet,
prepared to topple
if not mid-leap.

Meandering digitless
hands—unsure
what to hold, or how.
The sheet is mostly blank.

Not that this concerns
the creature—its tail
would wag, I’m sure,
but for static image,

as it enters that single hut
which is nowhere near
the right size or perspective,
perched as it is on the horizon.

Bass Fiddle

"I love you," said

through a riddle:

of delicate shape,

but un-little.

It is the songbird's

king-size cousin

who ought to sing

but can't and doesn't,

a ponderous bird whom

song won't stand to teach.

Its throat must reach

for notes like thoughts

for speech.  Despite

oneself, one stays

to simple parts.

To play them

the unlikeliest

of arts.

Waiting Room (revised)

Someone's little girl

With ears bandaged tight.

A lady blowing her brains out

Through her nostrils

Due to who-knows-what.

An old man shuffles to the corner

With a hacking cough.

The crease of his pant leg

Traces the crisp line

Of an obsolete prosthesis.

A boy with two black eyes

And zero parents quietly tears apart

A many-colored model of the heart,

Complete with intricate diagrams

And many terms in Latin.

You had only scheduled a checkup,

But the man with a swollen lip

And crutches is eyeing you

Like a long-lost brother.

"Be right as rain," he murmurs.

The moths orbiting the light fixture

In crazy spirals—they, likewise,

Sympathize with inchworms below,

With those measuring floor tiles.

There are differing types of constraint.

violin screech

       violin screech

(I have her this week)—

       daughter practicing our song

Bass

The bass fiddle

is a riddle.  A violin

shape, but un-little.

It is the songbird's

king-size cousin

who ought to sing

but doesn't, whom

song could never teach.

One's hand must reach

for notes like thoughts

for speech.  Hence

it's known a sort

of magnet-driven

transport, how the root

of each chord

repeated moves us

forward.  The effect

is comic or eerie

when it ventures

a melody, like

watching an obese

trapezist: he suspends

our breath and expects

to tremendously

please us.

Here We Are (Hymn)

In mercy, let your arms extend;
Through us, befriend the fatherless.
I AM has come in word and deed;
To those in need, Lord, here we are.

We thirst to see the hungry filled,
Injustice stilled and light restored.
From darkened homes, make families;
And let us be your arms of love.

II. Woman

Flat against the far wall
of this little room at the back
of the Contemporary Wing,
you have no way of knowing

you are there, that your gaze
toward some target off-screen
is aimed at the wall on my left,
which is empty. The yellow curl

of hair grazing that jawline
I so admire looks as though it
could somehow be spun into gold
if I only knew your name. You

are curving your lips inward
as if about to face a mirror, or else
struck by a dull sense of tragedy
about to happen, and at once

I could kiss them—if not for the fact
of my body, since that which light cannot
penetrate blocks your presence... All this
just moments before the camera

must have closed its lens, and the room
darkens, though there yet remain quanta
of flickering film grain and a rapid click
as the reel continues to advance.