1. 

I want to die in a bookstore. 

Don’t wake me up if these volumes are dreams. 

Words are beautiful. 

I feast upon paperbacks 

as if I am eating my last meal, 

all day long, if I could. 

I don’t care if I get hay fever 

from the dust & spores of delicate archivals. 

Pass me more fabric gloves & face masks. 

Give me a comfy chair & an end table 

with lots of light. I’ll spend the night 

on my last day on Earth 

reading away, growing blissful. 

You may not notice I’ve passed on, 

cradling books upon my lap, 

my legs crossed, laying back, 

smiling, eyes still open, 

in absolute wonderment. 

2.  

My native Texan OU roommate 

prefers to die 

in a Sephora—craving 

a timely, pampered end to a brief life. 

She dreams she will  

finally expire 

after dripping wet, 

dipping skinny from the 

Nancy Best Fountain 

In Klyde Warren Park, 

then towel-dried,  

lathering her face 

with free samples   

at the Galleria in Big D 

then, the big O 

(oh, finally!!) while vibrating 

on a massage Barcalounger, 

all at once, having the feels, 

feeling so beautiful, 

cared for & relaxed 

before her final breath. 

Two baseball diamonds lay waiting

on opposite sides of the East River.

The one in LIC Queens is ragged,

unkempt, graffitied with dark lines.

The one on Roosevelt Island

is finely manicured,

like neat tiny potted plants.

They are worlds apart,

these awaiting diamonds

for Summertime players

to make their own moves

on both sides.

The Queensboro Bridge 

can hold the whole world 

at once, from all

walks of life—

we dreamers & schemers,

rich & poor

we all move ahead.

The wildfires made a soupy fog

for days—golden dal-colored;

wonder what this apocalyptic haze

would taste like,

if we were able to stand

for hours safely, breathing 

in the golden polluted air

at lunchtime?

Don’t do it.

Wear your mask.

Don’t exercise.

This too shall pass,

but it will be

a long Summer,

& Earth is becoming

hotter with time.

I can breathe there. 

Even though the city’s been called “dirty” 

while construction has torn up Downtown, 

people are nice & considerate there. 

Even though the city’s been called “dirty,” 

Duquesne Incline will lift your spirits! 

People are nice & considerate there. 

The Strip is full of life & foodstuffs;  

Duquesne Incline will lift your spirits. 

The scenery up the hill is breathtaking. 

The Strip is full of life & foodstuffs; 

the rain showers are falling fast 

& the scenery up the hill is breathtaking. 

While construction has torn up Downtown, 

the rain showers are falling fast.

I can breathe there. 

Sullen April,

why are you so sad?

why are you so cold?

Baby, we just want to get to know you—

They say that all girls

love the Springtime,

but you dragged your boots,

crushing May flowers in two

And April showers 

make you so happy,

but not us, gloomy Gus,

we like the sunshine

And the Frenchmen at the other table

they don’t turn your head,

though they’re dressed up to the nines,

you like your own company fine.

Sullen April,

why are you so sad?

why are you so cold?

Baby, we just want to get to know you.

You did it with boys way too young.

Now you hide in the library

and you got them on the run—-

You weren’t much of a singer,

you couldn’t write a decent rhyme,

but in spite of your recent hiding,

you had impeccable time-ing

And wide open spaces to you were always such a bore

when it’ll finally heat 

up, oh, my sweet,

maybe we can meet 

up at the shore.

Sullen April,

why are you hiding?

why are you so cold?

Baby, we just want to get to know you—

Honey, we just want to get to know you 

Darling, we just want to get to know you.

I’m nobody’s fool.

Yes, I look younger

than most grown-up women,

I’m mature as a 70-year-old.

Yes, I look younger—

I dyed my hair & whitened my teeth.

I’m mature as a 70-year-old.

But now my job is exhausting.

I dyed my hair & whitened my teeth.

I used play hard, & party more—

But now, my job is exhausting,

I don’t stay up late most nights anymore.

I used play hard, & party more

than most grown-up women.

I don’t stay up late most nights anymore.

I’m nobody’s fool.

Greens come alive on St. Patrick’s Day.

Each shade saturates; 

they vibrate 

finely under the lights: 

Kelly, olive, emerald, forest, moss, teal, pistachio.

Hello, let’s go, baby!

You flashed your cat-eyes

from across the room,

a welcome trance—

You had an Irish accent;

your tongue full of whiskey.

I don’t believe in curses

& superstitions.

Please don’t pinch me

if you want us to remain friends.

I know the days are growing longer,

& the flowers are budding to bloom,

but it’s way too soon

to go all the way—

Maybe,

if you are good, & promise 

me some needed attention 

& good loving, Baby,

you can see me

in my green underwear,

feeling natural. I don’t have

a green thumb, & I eat greens

but cannot cook,

but I can try to make some room,

some time for you

if you turn out to be the One,

if growing old together 

is a good idea—

In the meantime,

my green bra 

holds the interesting

bits & tits in,

but only for 8 hours a day.

Hope you like the view;

hope we can visit Ireland 

someday where green 

is natural currency 

or in the rest of days,

when the other colors matter.