Sibert under moonflowers

They dangle like a blessing over the sidewalk by the clinic some kind of white trumpety flowers with the usual indifference to their miraculous.

The clinic is going about its business, though there's this odd sign: arrow pointing toward the swinging doors, a baffling MINIMALLY INVASIVE ENTRANCE (Huns that are not going all out? Kudzu, Scotch broom inching in?) I'd say an invasion of any kind disturbs.

Let me just talk about the wooden toy in the store next to the clinic. It's a VW van like the one we drove across the country.

I loved how we sat high above the other cars and the way he turned the wheel, arm over beautiful muscled arm, also the bed in the back.

I think I've got to buy that toy, avoid the entrance a little longer stand under the moonflowers with my memories and my tiny bus.

Craig Smith

Garbage Day

It’s another pandemic lockdown week The days run together

But this day is special—Garbage Day!

Here comes the first truck Will it be yard waste or regular garbage?

It’s regular garbage!

Another truck is coming now

It’s yard waste!

Goodbye weeds, goodbye clippings!

Time now to wait an hour

For the grand finale Here it comes! Recycling!

Oh, no! There’s a problem

A big piece of cardboard is stuck In neighbor Kate’s container

Use the mechanical arm, Mr. Driver Shake! shake! shake!

Get that cardboard loose!

He did it! Hallelujah! Way to go! The cardboard is free and loaded The truck moves to my house

My container empties smoothly

Another fine loading job by me

I’m going to buy myself a trophy

The truck moves on Another week has passed It’s only 10 a.m. but I need a nap

Mary Lou Spartz

Morning Fog

Fog knows its way around bays islands inlets coves boulders deadfalls streams

Spanish moss salt chucks big houses cabins outhouses window boxes big holes cruise ships kayaks hanging baskets twisted flags headlights round-abouts until it runs away when the sun comes out.

Cynthia Steele

We were not exotic dancers

We were not exotic dancers

Not superhero women

In pastel capes with sequins

Floating high above the stages

Twirl the pole, pump the music

Something in the moonlight catches my eye

The shadow of a lover goes dancing by

Blank eyes don’t see nothing

Before us now a cast of strangers

We were not exotic dancers

Suzy Chapstick, Laura Martin

Ordinary girls who got lost

In pink martinis and vats of cocaine

We were not exotic dancers

Quick change outfit, try to please him

A hundred shoes and stretchy fabric

We were not exotic dancers

Sometimes just bikini suit tops

Like a Coppertone commercial

Snort a line and buy another

Vials and vials of amber bottles

Shots and snorts and promised futures

Laugh it off here have another

Do you keep secret left untold Can't give love, heart or soul

We were not exotic dancers

Watching conscious over shoulders

Lived with boyfriends, our flawed lovers

Waited for us at all hours

Boys who served time for dope

In downtown halfway houses

Where we’d visit, bring a ciggie

We were not exotic dancers

This was just our ordinary

Throw a bag full, choose your music

Laura’s high pumps, sometimes tap shoes

For that rare occasion: she broke out in type-like click sounds

Gregory Hines or Ginger Rogers

Head on down to clubs of pleasure

Flash a smile, make him love you

Mercury-Marvin Sunderland Your Face Latticed in Great Pine Trees

should i find your face latticed in great pine trees i shall dance upon figs upon the highest branch sunlight casts on miles of pinecones unreachable by the fruits of the nearby flower my tree sways — woah! i find myself teetering over i grasp my fingers onto branch & dangle from above my hands betray but i do not fall instead i float upon clouds & wait for i do not chase for your face like i have done so many times before instead i fill myself with helium to continue to rise away i do not see your face latticed in great pine trees.

Gary Thomas Floating Dock

I learned to swim here, my grip entrusted to your barnacled ladder when the currents tired me, warmed my ocean chilled body on your grainy platform, painted faces with wet fingers to watch them shrink and dry in the sun. You rocked me off to sleep.

You’ve grown soft, moss green along the edges, great planks splintered, cracked, too dangerous to be useful. No one cares for you any longer, opting for pressure-treat and non-skid. Only stanchion escorts, worn thin and smooth at the middle by iron rings and tides, remain at your side. I hear creaks, like an old porch rocker, as laughing children in speeding boats wake you

Lucy Tyrrell Night

is a sharp knife— fillets the sky into salmon strips of red-green swimming light, carves the silver moon’s crescent curves above mountain humps, pink shadowed valleys, blade-tips the shining dog star hung above the bony horizon. Its blade cuts, finds the light.