Station

You sprint down

the platform at Piccadilly.

The first time I see you run.

Boyish.  Easy.

Sun pales gray

through the train shed roof,

as if we are lit for a morning set.

I wait for someone to shout "Cut!"

The doors close.

We're late.  The attendant frowns. 

Next train leaves at 11:11.

I don't mind.  It's lucky.

The carriage is warm.  It sways.

You explain why bricks change to stone

in the crosshatch of hedgerows

and sundry farms.

I find a station in your arms.

Stillness in your eyes.

Think how indecently happy,
should I suddenly die.

tk/April 2015

Lovely read by R.A.D. ...like the gentle sway of a train carriage...

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American

Convict me of dandelions

and large puddles of ketchup,

the June scent of Scioto rain.

At breakfast I get drunk on Bach,

with a chaser of Copland and Joplin,

hotdogs from a cart, by noon.

Find me guilty of eating at the kitchen sink,

ordering drive-thru McDonald's fries―

you shotgun, me in a Stetson.

I pretend to hate mosquitoes on the Fourth of July―

come at me with sparklers, buckeyes,

those little American flags stapled to sticks.

I want to pursue our life, liberty, and happiness,

but there's something you should know―

I love A. Lincoln, shamelessly.

tk/May 2013 


R.A.D. Stainforth...a rare step out of his black and white world...

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Settlement of Snow

The Mill, 1964, Andrew Wyeth

Boots tramp your arrival.

I am aware of you. 

Wyeth stillness lies

in the bodice of my gown.

Unlace the corset with gloved hands

to find the curvature of the earth.

Fire hisses.

Impatient embers

find their way into everything we know.

The room is overwarm.

Gathered branches tumble to the floor.

There is no script, no canvas.
This is no ordinary happiness. 

tk/January 2014







Exquisite read by R.A.D. Stainforth: 

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Yellow House

The Ice Cutters, 1911, Natalia Goncharova

I lie with insomnia,

wishing it was you.

Listen as salt trucks echo

along the river road;

dare to disturb monochrome.

The autumn of me craves

orange marmalade on toast,

breakfast with no conversation,

watching sunflowers

grow into firm-fleshed love children.

I think about Vincent nibbling his paint,

how the taste of his favorite

floated vivid on his tongue,

how he was happiest

in the yellow house.

tk/December 2013


The excellent R.A.D. Stainforth contemplating a yellow house...I hear a cat...

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