The hum inside
often gets silenced
by accident;
just a common distraction
To feel inside
is not easy
sometimes,
but it’s sometimes
Sweet,
like tasting rare meat
covered in garlic salt
and black pepper,
not a usual treat
For the poor,
except when the
blood comes,
then it’s a
necessary evil.
If you will
pour me a glass
of Roja,
so I can close my
eyes & imagine
That I’m in Argentina,
feasting as the
tango dancers shake,
while the violins start to hum.
A brief rest from moving
to the second floor,
before their lunch
and after ours
After introductions
were made,
we discussed many
vintages of wine
while gunpowder green tea
was brewing
My friend’s son
just graduated from
culinary school,
he talks of wine and teas,
so a spontaneous
tea ceremony begins
Her mother,
visiting from Ecuador,
was so lovely.
I want to see her house
in Quinto one day
The tea showed us
several colors and flavors
during the three tastings.
One, smoky and metallic,
like pennies on the tongue
Two, more like spring,
a certain grass, maybe
asparagus
Third, wet, mellow,
traces of shaved almond.
Amazing, what different
worlds one can find
in a tiny cup,
three times.
Before the new faucet
was chosen and brought
after much deliberation,
I saw him at 59th and 3rd.
He almost didn’t
recognize me in
my old sunglasses;
he said I looked like
Elton John
My new dress
($15)
is short,
off-the-shoulder,
a red, loose-fitting cotton
marked with white
flowers and birds.
It felt like summer,
before girls
had to wear bras
(but not now)
Strutting eastward
on 59th
like a socialite
lost from the Hamptons,
it was like easy living
before Monday’s grind
(and it would be nice
if we would have a
working faucet
before our vacation)
The dog days
of summer
are still present,
even with
new appliances
and dresses
to distract us.
Making up for lost time yesterday,
I stopped almost dead
after 8000 paces;
after consuming a salmon Benedict
and two helpings of mixed greens,
I pick out my mint leaves
from my Caribbean mule
and crushed them between my teeth,
as I spied with my little eyes
the other beautiful people
in the French cafe on Sixth Avenue,
celebrating their birthdays…
I still have ways to go
before the storm starts.
We didn’t visit his house yesterday;
every time I go there with him
I’m in between-times,
seeing souvenirs from the past,
and my first memories of knowing him,
and possible futures, the parties
held there with loved ones,
now here and those maybe in-waiting,
the babies coming thanks to
his siblings, all singing
the old songs around the table.
But when I visit the house presently,
I feel out of step, as if the
between-times are too near
to touch, or to reach,
which makes reality sometimes
both boring and confusing.
Why do I feel this way?
He is now well-dressed
due to his mother’s dictations,
yet today they are too busy
with other things to visit,
so we go home after rehearsal
at the Temple,
one hour traveling for a 45-minute
run-through,
the songs are coming through,
and the times are often changing,
here and between every single line.
I wonder how
all these threads
of humankind
weave into each other,
like distant characters
written for the same novel,
and as the plot thickens,
all the colors run together,
Or, a singular note,
starts a fugal phase,
which begins to change
the tonal quality
within a symphony,
you can still sing the theme
that first note helped to make.
Each good deed
and kind word
forms an attachment
one can’t live without.
What is it you need?
and have you heard…
the sweetest intentions
whispered into a shout.
What will happen
to us in 10 years or so?
For many of us,
we will never know…
Until that day,
when our threads finally fray,
let’s say we will all be loved
eventually,
because each of us
is a singular note in the world’s
longest-playing symphony,
and a thread
in a galaxy-large tapestry.