Our waitress admits
the town has its share of ghosts.
We sleep with lights on.
Strangers in a strange town
1
Our waitress admits
the town has its share of ghosts.
We sleep with lights on.
Our waitress admits
the town has its share of ghosts.
We sleep with lights on.
Riverside village
quaint without self-consciousness,
where arts mix with charm.
Just water on rock.
And yet, sheer power compels
visitors to gape.
Florida is the
cheese at the end of the maze
known as air travel.
Vegans, stay away,
lest your firm resolve melt from
tender smoked brisket.
I eat meat because
it’s Texas. Tender steak like
beef cotton candy.
When you’re in a long
meeting, now you have two things
to look at while bored.
Hills like cut paper
black against tissue blue skies.
Through poked holes, stars shine.
Left in Manhattan
cab. Friends’ numbers, pix of my
kids in strangers’ hands.
Tourists whisked to the
top while on tenant floors, one
hears “shhhhhhsss” like secrets.