Mirror mirror

Mommy's pink lucite framed mirror

lay on the floor.

my one eyed teddy bear

ignored.

The ceiling of the living

room was down there,

at the bottom of the pool.

If I could but touch it,

or clutch the hem of Alice's skirt

to pull me in, I'd follow Orpheus

through the dissolving entrance

to his underworld.

Instead.

Each morning the mirror

corroborates another step

on the journey to join the dead.

-

The girl walking down the street

looks up from her phone

to check her presentation

in the noon reflection

of every store front window,

tucks a strand behind an ear,

takes the opportunity

to assess her rear.

-

One night,

so long ago that now...

I walked through

the empty town of Dachau.

no cars, no people, no breeze

to stir the leaves in the heavy

moonless midnight air.

no money in my pocket

for a meal or or a bed,

I kept walking, scared.

out past

the last few lights of town.

I stepped into a field

looking for a place to sleep

under a tree or beside a shed.

so dark that i could not see my face

in a puddle beside a barn,

but in it's black reflectance,

the stars and galaxies

gleamed backwards,

a universe reversed,

and I was calmed.

Signs and whispers

What does the willow twig

so precisely laid across

the corner trash bin have to say?

What voices do

the green corn husks

and the corn silk,

the desiccated

chicken thigh bone,

lying on the sidewalk

picked over by the ants, have?

On the lamp post,

a washed out grayish xerox,

protected by a yard or two

of packing tape, displays

a smirking sun-glassed face

hiding behind bold block letters:

-DEVIL'S ADVOCATE-

The barking discord on the screens

finds it's way down to the street.

What deal was the suit guy yesterday,

striding past the construction pit

speaking loudly into his phone

about some launches, cooking up?

Surely not about North Korea

but in these days

of strange opportunities,

who knows?

There is a man in Cairo

who collects ephemera,

as trivial as toothbrushes and ticket stubs,

lighters and old shopping bags,

stores them in multiple apartments.

He says, everything is wonderful,

he finds meaning in every battered toy.

I spied a perfectly sliced

half moon this morning,

straight up overhead.

It looked like a dime slipping

into a slot in blue infinity

waiting for god's hand

to pull the lever

and spin the wheels

to come up jackpot cherries

but the odds are more likely

to come up bell seven lemon.

Nameless

She sits cross-legged

outside the nameless park each afternoon

scratching the crust of dirt on her bare thighs.

She hums and sighs,

avoids the eyes

of all the passersby

who study their phones

or the crossing signal

or check the sky,

deaf to her mewling

kittenish cries and mumbling

and walk on by.

She wears a blanket brown as sable,

brown as her Congo skin

draped close around her shoulders.

She has leaves in her hair

and secret smiles, some thought

or memory that seems to please her.

She never holds out a palm or cup

but I decided to give her a dollar

and she looked up and gave me

a smile, said in the sweetest

child voice, "happy".

The next day I did the same

and again she said, "happy".

Somedays she is elsewhere,

but now I make sure to have

some dollars in my pocket

for when she is, sitting quietly,

talking softly to her self,

touching the fallen leaves stuck in her hair,

lost in memory or revery as she suns there,

outside the nameless park. and all she ever says is,

"happy"

The plan

Zack had it all worked out.

Down to the last Euro.

A modest townhouse

on a sunny coast,

with bougainvillea

fountaining up the walls

and the scent of herbs

drifting through

the open windows

on balmy nights.

A Vespa with a basket

that he'd ride down to the beach

or to the market where he'd inspect

with a practiced eye,

the fresh caught mackerel

or aubergines,

nudge some loaves

still warm from the oven.

Perhaps a cappuccino

and a malasada lightly dusted

with golden grains of sugar

to sweeten the morning while

he spent an hour or two

perusing sports and politics

on the latest iteration

high resolution iPad.

Undoubtably he'd meet

some sweet raven haired

potter or masseuse.

And they would share

the same taste in cinema,

much laughter, and

a lively time in bed.

She would teach him

the local lingua

and ride behind him

on the Vespa and

it wouldn't matter

that her raven hair

streaming out behind them

in the ocean breeze was dyed.

He could see it all so clearly.

Things didn't work out that way.

He bought a condo in San Ysidro

with a rosemary bush outside

his window, but at least he

got the Vespa and met

a woman with black dyed hair.

Stella wasn't a potter, she sold

plates and glasses at Pottery Barn

and she knew all the best places

on his body to knead and rub.

It was a short trip to Tijuana

on the weekends for cappuccinos

and pasteles at a favorite cafe

where they could talk about

the latest movies, laugh or groan

about the news. If they were feeling frisky,

they could spend the afternoon

playing in a by the hour hotel bed.

On Sunday evening, as the sun

sank in the Pacific,

they climbed back on the scooter,

split the lanes at the border

and were back home

at Seaview condos before dark.