Sweet Rachelle, your first eager glance has lasted all these years. I sit with it now and wonder, what has become of you? I feel your inspiration well inside of me, your enthusiasm for life and loving and the arts. I need to remember you, not the way fate pulled us apart but the way we came together in the searing days of August 1985.

time traveler . . .
my quiet steps
in the museum

We met informally at the art club gathering, you, sitting in the corner with your flaming hair, smiling at me across the room. Your eyes lit up when I said, “I’m a sculptor.”

You chirped, “Me too!”

That was all it took. We became the best of friends, every day spent together making art. It was only a matter of time before we were making love.

After school let out, I tried to visit you in Montreal but the border patrol wouldn’t let me through. I can’t find you on the Internet so I’m left with an au revoir and a smile but I hope you still remember the day we met, our last hug, and the laughter.

dream weaver . . .
the warp and weft
of a tattered shawl

Wrapped around your finger, like a towel around an agitator. Lost my glasses in the dishwasher looking for you. The blow-dryer went out with a bang and now my hair has powder burns.  The dining room light is out and I can’t see what I am eating. Tastes like sawdust anyway.

belching and smoking
with a purpose…
chimney sweep

The traffic light said GO; smash! The insurance company raised my rates to see if I bleed. All this from a fortune-teller who asked me how I was going to get home. Found my toupee in the lint trap. You never liked it anyway. If only I could borrow enough money to live like a lottery winner, there would be more cheese in the fridge. Our dirty laundry is on the clothesline.  When will the cows come home? All I know is if you add detergent, and put quarters in the slot, I’ll spin like a top with bubbles until the laundry mat is closed.

Kama Sutra Blues…
Maytag hiring
for all positions

First published in The Other Bunny

downwind from the cattle ranch, cooking hash on a campfire, smells like nuclear fallout, the time for mourning the cows—over and done—we milked the last one before slicing her throat yesterday, moo-town blues, harmonica melted in the blast, no lips anyway, half the world gone, the other half going, better for the cow, no slow, slow death by rad poisoning, snow and rotten apples on the trees, up to my knees in shit

stock market plunge
the rising cost
of a cheese sandwich

First published in The Other Bunny

Ronnie stepped off the bus and flew thirty feet, right before my eyes. By the time he landed, he was dead. Fifty years later, the events are still in slow motion in my mind—but backward: first a thump, then a laugh passing by, then he’s leaning over the seat, cracking jokes. We run through the door when the last bell rings; at recess we’re playing tetherball. We solve the problems on the board, rub the sleep from our eyes. We greet each other in the hallway, another day with a friend begins. I wonder if I left something important out. Could I have laughed at one more joke, played one more game? How could I know I’d remember that day as the day we ceased being children.

dry east winds . . .
a tumbleweed rolls
toward the setting sun

First published in The Haibun Journal, 3:2—October 2021

Somewhere inside his meandering mind, he finds a moment where he can set aside the complexities of life. Sitting at his desk, the walls fall away and he becomes that little boy, playing with his toy Mustang on the sidewalk. Zoom, zoom! His inner child spins the model’s wheels, imagining what life will be like when he’s all grown-up . . .

SNAP—he’s back to the present; spinning in his chair like a top, he wonders, As I die, will I feel this sense of completeness?

a sketch of spring leaves . . .
my finger in the frost
on the window

First published in The Haibun Journal, 4:2, September 2022