Maya

God opened the morning

on tiptoe,

pinning laundry to an aluminum web,

spinning the wind into strings of breeze,

as a hanging apron

with a boutonniere rose,

awaits the shift change.

There are special clocks for this,

when a tight wound spring breaks free,

the lost moments gathered back

by a second chance hand,

time treasured by the grand

child's crayon circle

come full.

What can be read,

into a situation,

had to be there in blue, or purple,

before black and white

patterned the dance partner's feet across

a tiled floor.

When the poet stops selecting commas,

to indicate a pause for breath,

then the last line becomes

unending;

each of us,

taking a turn.

Dudgeon

The dove skull our cat

left on the lawn

crackled under my morning slipper,

not so much tribute

as startle to the weight

of lifeless bird breasts.

I bagged the carcass

with the morning pet scat

and returned to make coffee,

"Did you wash your hands?"

Surgeons, too, must slice their days

like this: so much for art, commerce,

maybe comedy, conundrum,

or commonplace communion.

The convenience of lightning

striking us down to prayer

not as reliable as a tame tabby

baring fangs and claw.