IGNORING NORTH PARK

You say I’m not

allowed to mention

the rose that was

so red I could see it

in the shadows

even when the entire
room was blanketed in 

romantic darkness. 
Don’t mention 
the house, you say,

that sat in a line of

houses in that

neighborhood of

quaint, old homes,

and yet was different

than the others simply

because they had never

guarded a private moment

of mine, a moment

whose beauty made

my heart explode

like summer fireworks. 

Fine. I won’t mention them

(If that’s what you want)

but they will still

burn and burn and burn

like a flame 
in the part of me

where speech has

been exiled.

MY MORNING CRUSADE

In a house as dark

and quiet as sin,

the silence is no comfort

and when you least

expect it, that not peace

is shattered by a barking

dog or a ringing phone

which, if we bothered

to count, is always some

kind of debt collection.

It’s a kind of miracle,

then, that this morning  

this coffee cup

is my sword and this book

is my shield and as the

hounds torture the

last scrap of tranquility

and the garbage men

violate the cans in

the alley

I am saved

by a few decent lines

and the hot, steamy pleasure

of the hazelnut creamer

in my decaf