Snapshot: In Truman Park

Love, I watched you leave last noon:
A silence over Truman Park —
Yet all the dignities were kept,
In almost-reverence

Yes, love, I watched you leave out there;
A passer-by who happ’d to see
A type of wrenching, grasping grief —
A silent severance —

But is there only ever this?
The long hello, the short goodbye —
But is there only ever this?
The too-late, and the why —

Oh,love, I watched you leave last noon:
A drifter-through, a silent ghost,
Who felt the touch of empty hopes
From those who learned to love


Snapshot: Rusty Gas Pump

The beauty is not in rust

Or desolation,

It is in the untold stories

Of a million hands

Laid upon this pump,

Stretching across many yesterdays,

With their forgotten heartaches.


To see the beauty in humanity,

Of humanity,

One was must never

Trade in one’s own humanity

In exchange for a license to judge

Or permission to condemn;

All the good we can build

Must build upon what good

There already is.


Steel forged in Pennsylvania,

Gasoline from the Turner Valley,

Hands of travelers through Florida,

And this wanderer, from Georgia,

All in this place, though some

Only years ago, heading into the

The future on the river of time,

Which leaves behind,

In pools and eddies,

Reminders that we still share

More in common

Than the vain among us

Want to admit.

Snapshot: Passing By A Woman In The Hotel Lobby

I saw her waiting in the lobby
Nervously, expectantly;
Looking out the giant window
Framed by its immensity

Who she was I do not know, and
Never will, now, I suppose:
But the seekers, lookers, waiters —
I belong
To such
As those


(“Snapshot: Passing By A Woman In The Hotel Lobby” – 12-10-2014)

Snapshot: On Finding An Abandoned Stall in the Desert (Revised)

There was a final time: the stall set out,
With jewelry and fabrics in a line —
The next day, and thereafter then, no more;
No more, and soon, no one with memory
To paint in images or words the scene
That once was daily, year on year on year.

The mundane, the quotidian: our lives,
Not big events, but habits of our days,
They soon lie empty on a sandy waste —
The firebird heads into the unknown,
High o’er the mountains, just past where we see,
To leave behind our stalls for someone else