Some Mornings I Wish I Were A Christian

My cat is playing with his rope toy. it's his world to him. And I'm wishing it were tucked behind my ear where I could forget it even existed, in the warm and g0lden autumn sunshine over a lake hidden in the Adirondacks.

But that day we lay together in a row boat, sun-warmed, spray-cooled, while it turned from afternoon to evening, and the day wound down.

And we stepped out of the boat onto the already cooling lakeside sand, where our footprints seemed to mean so much.

And I can't wait to see your lips, in that tiny earthly smile.

Lindsey At Hammerstein

The streets are chilly and damp, but the cab is warm. Your hand in mine feels happy and strong. Your black crepe skirt creeps over your knee, and I see the driver looking in the rear view. That comes out of his tip!

Once in my apartment The Skunk takes you over as his own, his new friend. I'm warming his dinner on the stove, so in a couple of minutes he will deal with that and leave us to our own devices.

And I slip Lindsey's dvd into the player, and we watch with our arms around each other.

Then we stand up and slow dance across the way-too-small bedroom floor. Your lips aren't cold anymore, from being outside. Your mouth tastes of autumn, and the early-coming sunrise.

Blessings have died in these sandy valleys, but please don't hold that against us. Tonight we heard music that just may be immortal.

Taxi Nights

It's the thing I miss the most about climbing into an empty cab with you on a cold winter's night, opening the zipper of my jacket as the warmth of the taxi loosens the chilly grip on my hands.

Our heads and hearts were always so full of music, and for some reason that I never understood you didn't care when I leaned on my cane like some old cripple, holding onto your shoulder like an anchor to keep me from falling.

You took a sip of my water, smoothed your skirt over your knees. Damn, I wish I could be half so holy. Even Will Shakespeare understands you.

And we saw the bat fly over in the dark, and we nodded to each other. Flesh trapped in the membranes of wings, until we let it go.

And who knows any more than this? You with your wings nailed to the scoreboard?

The Difference

Ghosts are beautiful, the gorgeous reflections of what happened whenever it was most important to them, not to us. They showed themselves in lace and crinolines. They showed themselves in tuxedos and micro-skirts. They showed themselves in their best, as they saw it. They showed themselves with hands making crosses over their breasts. They showed themselves kneeling before desert gods.

It doesn't matter, they are all still beautiful. The only one who is ugly is the one who doesn't know, or worse yet, who tries to hide it.

Rockaway Beach

The last time I walked on Rockaway Beach was  thirty-something years ago, the sand warm between my toes on a warm Memorial Day night and my fiancée's hand in my own. Her sister was with us, and we all watched the night sky for meteors and comets.

What we saw was moonlight on the water, shining on the sand sculpture my friend Lily was making on the dunes. She and I knew what it meant, but that was our secret.

Jill looked at us and we made some hot air excuse, I think we fooled her. But not us. "As her face at once just ghostly, turned a whiter shade of pale."