FOR CRAIG

My son reclines on the sofa
 eyes closed
arms crossed on his chest
                                 
his face pale and unlined
like the infant brought home
in a woolen bundle twenty years earlier

Only the shadowy stubble
outlining his lips and chin
provide a clue to his age

Only the wiggle of his toes
inside dingy white socks
hint at whatever dream
cartwheels past his slumbering mind

He is every bit the man now
yet forever locked in his father’s recollection
as a rambling two year old permanently frozen
 by a parent’s paralytic hold
on yesterday’s powdered  innocence

OPEN WINDOWS

We make love in the darkened bedroom
as the sound of a faraway train whistle
leaks through the open window,
a random chord from a broken night
that seeps into our lives
like a scream inside a cave

Screeching tires from teenage rust heap cars
and the distant rumble of trucks
hum like a low, incessant soundtrack
wherever there is an open window and a quest for sleep
and the wind paints portraits
of the city’s heavy breathing

BUZZKILL

BUZZKILL

She says she believes
Asks if I do

I am unsure how to respond
Grope the words like they were overripe fruit
Finally, after scouring the depth of her eyes
I say: I believe in life. The here and now
Anything else is a fairytail

Her eyes reflect aversion
That is a non-answer, she says

It is the only answer, I say

Like a delirious chipmunk, she chatters away
about the soul, oneness with the cosmos,
the universal energy, our individual auras
and the spirituality of the afterlife

I listen impassively, finish my drink
and wonder what it was about her
I found so sexy an hour ago

NORTH PIER (92)

A mid-August Chicago night
as sultry
as a hot shower
in a sealed tomb

A reggae band
rocks North Pier
with loping rhythms
and a Rasta spirit
against a backdrop
of skyscrapers
their lighted windows
sparkling like joyful eyes
alive with summer’s rapture
jutting architectural angles
looking more like
an impressionistic movie set
than real life

Each moment thoroughly
unabashedly
percolating with human current
surging through the city
on an inky sharp evening
as downtown wears
its shroud of buildings
with the audacity
to challenge the energy
down to its moorings

On the pier
 conventioneers shuffle lazily
tourists dawdle with goofy smiles
city dwellers dash and dodge
eat and drink their fill
of this lakefront cornucopia

Everyone is
an integral part of the synthesis
of music
lake breezes
fast food fragrances
and the manic energy of a city
bubbling
in its own dynamic juices

North Pier
an old broad brick structure
once a tireless warehouse
now retired
yet never so alive
as it plays
with the children of the night
while reggae music festoons
down the Chicago River
in celebration
of a precious
summer night

STRING QUARTET NO. 4

I sit on my patio
listening to Beethoven’s String Quartet No. 4 in C minor
as the sun melds into the ionosphere,
dusk brushing the treetops

Unseen starlings chirp in counterpoint
to the morose movements,
violins evocatively weeping and celebrating
the composer’s vision

Lightning bugs spark in lockstep to the meter,
their jittery flight outlined in the gasping light.
Crickets, hunkered down in the shrubbery like insurgents,
provide the choral flourish that encapsulates
the flawless collaboration between Beethoven
and mid-summer dusk

MAGICICCADA

They are a tidal wave of life
          washing over farmland and forest
          yard and prairie

stirring from their seventeen year senescence
          to emerge en masse like a
          marauding army of winged warriors

eyeballs like ruby ball bearing
          wings as slight as Kleenex
          their mating call a staggering ninety decibel screech

like a million transmissions grinding
          in unison solely
          to attract a mate

I cannot blame them
          for I, too, would howl at ninety decibels  
          if I had to wait seventeen years between mating periods

TRAVELING LIGHT

I wish we could spend
         all our days together on the road

While I drive
         you would talk to me as America flashes by

As we tunnel
         past the predawn dew you would fall asleep

and I would adjust your blanket
         to keep away the snap of the morning chill

There will be corridors of silence
         where I will catch the sound of your breathing

And when we nestle
         like spring sparrows in the verdant arms of the Smokies

or flit over Florida sands
         like children in the throes of natural harmony

or hang glide in the clouds
         that crown the Rockies like a triumphant wreath

I will reach out and touch your hand
         as you gaze out the window

at the fixed path of highway
         as secure and preordained as our travels together