Three Poems

  Commute And the afternoon puts on a brave face, puts up a collar against the cold. Two days ago, the weathervane found a new direction— it’s still pointing there, unfazed. There’s smoke, and then there’s smoke. On the street corner, a woman’s wide mouth is a church organ. Pedestrians scatter: one by one they slip through the sidewalk grates. I’m left with a fistful of weeds, a stomach full of ideas small as buttons. The tailor tells me they’ll never hold, but I’m optimistic.   Gone Fishing [tab5]I’ve talked to my eye-[/tab5] care specialist and he assures me that the stars are not asterisks to my thoughts. How does he stay so organized? I have to stop myself from lunging at mirrors and wheel spokes, windows— I wonder what they taste like. Oysters come to mind, dense as cold spoons. Or lemons. The kitchen sink is full of dishwater and it’s starting to rise. One of these days I’ll lose an arm. A fingernail. I’ll be a real catch.   Swimmer's Ear Three down: laps speak in the exotic drone of helicopters, old refrigerators and warm beer. Today, I listen for the knife sharpener’s bell from the back yard—hold my breath until the truck passes, then lick the lawnmower’s rusty blades clean, my arms flailing like a waxwing’s wings. I’m the pedestrian wandering the bottom of the seashell, waiting to be put up to someone’s ear. Can you hear me?