Rachel of the suburbs
Rachel is most often seen in dresses, floral,
like a walking garden, roses and daisies
growing out of bright green, blue or yellow earth.
She dabs herself in sunscreen, to protect her
petal-like skin, to shelter her from the passing years.
Rachel has a dog, a bichon, who follows her
around the yard like an acolyte in the great church
of the one who feeds and shelters her.
She’s an average cook but she sets a splendid table.
The clink of plates is a dinner bell to her husband
who can be found, at suppertime, crashed in the parlor
after a hard day’s work.
She once went to the door of a handsome neighbor,
an artist who was typically home all day.
She knocked three times but no one answered.
She departed thinking that was for the best.
Rachel knows how to keep a house.
And she pays the bills.
She has the radio on all day but never really listens.
It’s talk shows mostly, people whining in chorus
with the loudmouth host.
Rachel has four children and each have their own needs
that only she can attend to.
Even the boy is drawn more to her than to his father.
She kisses her man, coming and going,
but just in some perfunctory way.
Her passion, these days, is for the rain to stop
or tradesmen to show up at the scheduled time.
Rachel seldom laughs but that does not mean she’s unhappy.
It’s just that she’s not happy.
There’s a difference only she can explain.
But who to? Her parents are dead. Her sister doesn’t call.
And that handsome artist wasn’t home that one time.
First breakup
I was young. Too young apparently
to come in from the cold. And bitter
it was. And the snow lay all around
like this great white corpse.
I was walking into the whipping wind,
knives in my chest to go with the ones in my back.
A bus rolled by, gave me a whiff
of its exhaust, some engine grumble
to go with mine. I passed somebody
whose face I didn’t even see but for the scars
down both cheeks. My predecessor surely.
And what the future had in store for the one
who took my place.
Some homeless guy shoved his hand
under my nose. Money? What’s that?
I wanted to trade. His bad times with life
for my worse times with a woman.
Did I mention how cold it was. But
I could put up with it. I wanted to
know what it felt like to travel the byways
of a human heart. For an hour or more,
I just walked and walked, until my
face froze up and my legs protested, no more.
So I caught a taxi home to fireplace and sympathy.
Ah, that taxi…my very first love.