Black Leopard
You didn’t so much pounce into my life
as you tiptoed toward me in the Acme produce aisle
where you worked, putting yourself through college.
I thought you were rare—you relished starry nights,
gourmet Chinese, Phillies games, Mummers Parades.
Caramel-colored curly hair, never surly,
just modest, kind, a dream guy
until you backpacked through Europe one summer
and changed stripes. You learned how to run fast—
from job after job, drinking in moderation, me.
So I learned to speak two more languages,
headed to Europe on my terms and stayed for five years.
Only now, after forty years do I think of you,
as my poetry material dries up; you’re a mere writing exercise.
Winged Lion
I feel like the yellow leaves
the wind is wildly tossing like footballs.
We used to be in it for the moment—
not a prize. Palpable passion suppressed history.
Last night the sky resembled a parting sea—
a big white angel transformed into waves
that crashed into black heavens.
I heeded the cue, hopped on my magic carpet
and embarked on a mission to unexplored space,
unstoppable despite out-of-date skills, an analog heart, a novel plague
Chelsea Wilds
The visitor doesn’t move like the orange butterfly
that followed me on Arthur Avenue one sunny Bronx day.
He doesn’t sleep deeply on twig mattresses
like Italian brown bears in Abruzzo’s national park.
My new neighbor is a stranger to restraint.
On the night he arrived, I awoke to his roar filling my rooms.
He doesn’t tread softly. Barefoot, he stomps like an elephant,
demanding validation and slaughtering my peace.
Pandemic days make an escape risky, so I work from the office,
turn the TV volume high to muffle disruptive sounds.
Before bed, I stuff my ears with plugs, pray he sheds his skin,
and fast transforms from a baboon into a goldfish.
Rack On
In the land of bluegrass and bourbon,
Grace’s days begin at dawn in Simpsonville
where Tennessee Walking Horses rack naturally.
Other breeds need her training to walk with poise,
to hone a four-beat gait that’s flashy and fast.
Necks arched and forelegs pulled high,
“rackers” ensure a comfy smooth ride.
She left the East Coast for Kentucky
where mornings remain a favorite part of day,
a symphony of calm and movement
with animals known for reading intention,
for cherishing friends and peace.
Heavenly Park
At day’s end, when the sun’s myriad campfires recede,
light a torch with the fire Prometheus seized
and join me at a Dark Sky Park.
Earth’s hot. A new plague landed. Nightfall is safer.
Maybe we’ll find remnants of a shiny meteorite
to hang at home.
I’ll fix a moonrise picnic on a beach of stardust
with a view of Andromeda and the Milky Way,
while we can, before the stars explode.
Cosmic beauty may portend the end—the Big Crunch
or Big Rip or Quantum Bubble—dark energy isn’t loyal.
It may catch us unawares, between bites of barbecued tofu
or between breaths, as we gaze at the North Star.
