He mistakes idle trash for exotic birds
w/ names he can’t pronounce,
the sound of kid fights
w/ old arguments between
adopted parental figures. He lives
in a model house of blind luck, sensitivity
training & a heightened 6th sense
whose presence is attributed to hearing loss
& basic stubbornness. 

“Try it now,” you growl, and the engine
roars to life, your great, dirty-blond mane
shaking with satisfaction. 

it’s a series of rounds,
a duck & cover
pecking order
any Ayn Rand fanatic
can see the appeal here. 

"I used to be a boxer," my grandfather said
and you could see the tinge of pride
as the words came out of his mouth.
you could see he had been transported
back to some earlier day
when he had the physical strength
and the stamina
to go toe to toe with any fool who would dare. 

they won't let me out of this wheelchair
I thought it would be fun to ride around
I wanted my father to push me
now I don't know where he went
and these people I don't know tell me I can't
I can't get up and walk around
I can't go outside the gate
I can't go home
I can't see my father
I don't want to eat but they tell me I have to
I have to take a bath
I have to change my clothes
I have to comb my hair
I have to go to bed 

She struggles to pull up documentaries
about unseen forces, IPAD vs HP.
The running joke is everything’s contagious:
shingles, infectious laughter, cold heart drama
& the love for stray cats that don’t belong to you
but visit from time to time all the same. 

A tourist tries to remain cynical
in the presence of a gray-bearded holy man
who sits bare chested, cross-legged,
in the shade of a drooping banyan tree.

But his sarcasm barely makes the journey
from his tongue to his wife's ear
when it's muted by the peaceful aura,
spiritual cadence emanating from the other. 

I spoke with my father on the phone,
A static connection, his voice in shadow.
The yard is a play of ice and dirt.
Today it is hard to see shed for shadow,
Dirt for ice, or to hear a voice
No matter how closely I look. 

It has,
always,
the brutal
urgency
of a real
pony.
Thick in the brow.
Snout buried
against
that insistent
ragtime.