Two Poems


Heat Wave

A prolonged heat wave

brings order to our days.

Here in the northern woods

we’re not used to hot weather.

We write letters

through the cool mornings,

swim through

the hot afternoons,

toss through warm nights.

A big red fire engine

blares down

our two-lane road.

Its tires burn rubber,

leaving black brush strokes

as it rounds the corner

in a rush to engage

the flames in combat.

The Cold

On an early morning in March

a gourmet chef walking his dog

discovered two frozen corpses

beneath an expressway underpass.

One wore four layers of clothing,

the other wore just three.

They were stiff & frost-bitten,

fingers & toes a pale, alien blue,

lips white as a high lone cloud.

A nearby shopping cart held

everything they used to own.