Two poems


Life on the Edge

“Foxy,” the perfect epithet she and her like

have spawned: wave-sleek, glowing paprika-

and-cream in the headlights as she makes

her liquid way across the road between

backyards and golf course. Pausing at the edge,

she seems to look up at the cloud-silvering

dime of a moon above the fifteenth green,

seeing nothing special. Instead, it isn’t

the moon or the first three shuddering stars

below it that make her start—ears tensed

and tented—but a few weary starlings

squabbling over a foothold in the tree above her.

Skittish, she stretches herself out

against the dew-slick grass, gliding

from fairway to sand trap, sensing even here,

half a mile from her hillside den

in that piney rough between the fairways,

her kits’ straitened-hungry whining.

Awaiting the kill that will come,

in time. And always just in time.

Praise for a Safe Commute in My Senescence*

Praise that I respond aright to the car’s chimed admonitions (seatbelt on, footbrake off).

Praise that the general flow of traffic is toward town, while my route is away.

Praise that the single school bus I encounter turns off within a block.

Praise that the first, always dilatory, stoplight I encounter is green.

Praise that I encounter no flashing stoplights, warning lights, hazard lights, school-zone lights.

Praise that traffic in the left lane is gapped, so I merge without the blare of a horn, or flip of a bird.

Praise that traffic doesn’t begin to bunch up till I’m halfway there and then some.