The Baptist boys stand side by side
hemming and hawing like wild ponies
with manes of shirttails
and hooves of patent leather.

The preacher folds his hands in prayer
of READY, SET
a rush of blur
a blue sky feather
GO, GO, GO! Fly-Fly!

She called me the painted lady.
When my father said this his voice cracked, a sign
he was pleased.
He put his feverish hand on my cheek
A face as pure as a painted lady,
My eighth grade nun said
I hoped it would stay like that forever,
my face, my father’s hand.

She sleeps the sleep of the loved
In this balled up bed, a rope of sheets
Morning sun touches her, and heats
Me – the memory of the hours before
While planets drowsed and stars wept
Like stolen nickels, my tongue kept
This silvery secret, wrapped tight, fisted

He raises the bottle of Wild Turkey, enthralled
As sad as a clown, as restless as mercury
No rest to be found–buses, couches, a Mexican room
A translated soul, in feverish bouts
A lonely flag in unchartered land
Messiah, Buddha, drunken madman
Haunted by life, the death of a brother
The tug and pull of his own private moon
When he finally surrendered, they could not bury
The little boy who remembered all.

The first person Margaret spoke to after Claire left was the paperboy. He was delivering the late edition, the edition Claire always brought home with her on the train but Claire had not been on the train that evening and Margaret, not knowing what else to do, flagged the paper …

Red was in a fury.  He discussed the issue with Black and White.  The room moved with heated debate.  As usual, Black and White disagreed.  White went over and leaned against the wall, looking no less beautiful than sun rays through the slats of a Venetian blind.  She knew this — without White these guys wouldn’t even exist.  But Black was in a mood.  He and Red sat in a corner, silent as a game of checkers.  Then Yellow flew into the room like the soft giddy bird she could sometimes be.  Yellow in pale comparison stood beside White.  Neither said a word.

Red and Black noticed the women …

The barn sits in the high weeds, behind the house, between the small Presbyterian church and the house.  It is a red barn, like most barns. There’s an old horse in there.  He stands inside, chewing the grass that comes up over the bottom door.  The horse came into …

What does it mean to share?
The wide river continues, unaware
Of the room, the time, the woman
Who loves you

Winter persists in age-old stubbornness
Splintery ice, like glass, falling
She surrenders to gravity, calling
You, love

What do you share, you two?
A house, a life, a kiss, new
Like every Spring
As permanent as air

Where did Jack Kerouac go?
Like the Merrimack River, or mountain air,
Kerouac flows–across America, across our minds
Impatient Buddha, paint-by-numbers Arizona sky
On flatbed trucks, cross-eyed stars, he finds
The road less traveled, where poets meet
Hungry and hot and drunkenly sweet
Heaven? This pen, this paper, a cup of Joe.

I’ve named the black-and-white cat “Checkers”
S/he scatters when I see her, hides behind Kerouac’s tree
A fool, I greet her: You’re a visitor, like me
Let’s be neighbors in this place not mine
See? Sam in his Superman shirt says “hi”
The man over there waves hello morning and night
And I sit on the porch, rereading “On the Road” (the cat inches back)
As neighbor yells at a speeding car of boys: “Slow down, you peckers!”