Detective Hidalgo was called to the scene

on a bleak ______ing evening, the thirteenth of ______.

One witness declared that as far as he knew

the two men were engaged in a _____ of pure _____.

The tiniest of aviators,

scarcely more than a bumblebee,

darts fast now and frantic

between the beams and oil cans,

the stacks of boxes, racks of tools.

When I stand before the glass,
I see me standing
before the glass.

When I gaze down at the page,
there I am,
looking back up at me.

How do you write a poem?
she asked.
It’s like going broke,
I replied—
gradually, them
suddenly.

I back out from the garage,

and there he sits,

bigger’n life, perched

in the middle of my windshield.

Six legs, carapace

the color of molasses

I was born

at a very young age,

so I cannot be expected

to remember

all the details.

There came at last

a day when,

exhausted and utterly fed up,

Sisyphus just walked

up the hill,

clear to the top

without stopping.

The light blue convertible Mustang

with the bondo on the left rear fender

speeds through the stop sign

at the corner of Elm and Baker

and nothing much happens

as a result.

In the latest of hours,

once the moon has set

and all is stars and velvet,

I lie alone

and turn the radio dial

to see who’s still up.

Ten minutes in the post office line,
and all the while
there persisted
a distant cheeping,
like a fine machine
crying out for oil.

Endless obsidian scar
stretches out before me
as the gauge creeps higher
and the whine of the tires
goes from cry to scream.

Rhyme is the poet’s parachute,
arresting too soon the vital rush,
the vertiginous cyclone,
of thought and language.

She is her mother’s first born

and blessed as such.

In these first few fragile moments,

her very breath yet tenuous,

she looks up at me

They are older than you or I

can ever be.

Older than age itself.

And because they have defied time

rooted in this place,

Earl the donkey
in a fit of gluttony
ate all the sweet purple
cactus fruit,
fruit we had hoped
to savor ourselves

Might there be, the neophyte asks,
certain topics that fall outside
the purview of the poet?
Those which are,
to put it plainly,
off limits or regarded perhaps,
as being in such poor taste
as to be eschewed at all cost?

I concede to being well
past the apex of my life,
at least as measured
from time’s perspective.
Closer to the end
than the beginning,
the poet might say.

It was only a lamp,
and an ugly one at that.
Footballs, even small foam ones,
bounce so unpredictably.
Where’s the justice
in holding a small child
accountable for that?

See Sally, Dick, and Jane
in their pretty white house
with the picket fence,
Spot in his doghouse.
Dad smiling as he puffs his pipe
and pushes the mower.
Mom taking the casserole from the oven.

Take me to your leader,
the alien said.
I said what?
He repeated it.
And I said why?