In Patience


the birds circle the tallest skyscrapers as if knowing
each tiny room is filled with dying or dead meat. they
dive, make circles around the tops of the black towers
as if their very presence will crack the climate-controlled flat glass panes
as if their will alone will open the walls and let them in.

below, on the empty streets, wild dogs and feral cats
pace anxiously back and forth in front of the sealed doorways
as if they think the electric sensors will finally
give in, let them in, allow one final flicker of electricity
enough to open the doors, one cold night
enough to crack the thin glass panes

just one door has to open
for all the animals who once lived with us
to know what became of humanity.

---

If We Were Closer


I used to dream of being more like her, practice singing
television on, flickering in the dark
arms out in pantomime as I screeched along with Judy Garland
Marilyn, but I was too quiet
too shy to sing with my grandmother for real.

She would dress me in her old gowns, put
blond curly wigs on my head
tell me stories of singing in Midwestern jazz clubs
when she was just a little older than me.
She was so beautiful when she was young
I could never fill her dresses out
as well as she did.

---

Left Behind


my dog paws at my notebook, whines
tries to pick up the pen lying on the floor
with his mouth. I imagine
he’s trying to write something, a letter
to the people who used to live
in this house. I say, no, bad dog
you’re my dog now, I say
those people moved away
and left you behind.

I watch nature documentaries where dogs
lost at rest stops, escaped from hotel rooms
find their own way back home
from hundreds of miles away
but that doesn’t apply here. I say no,
bad dog, sit still and listen
you old mutt
you’re stuck with me

you’re a part of this house.