Two Step

The man on the streetcorner huffs and puffs

and blows an angry wind at the passersby.

The passersby recoil from his bloodshot eyes,

his blistered neck and forearms,

his indignant, wire-brush hair.

He argues aloud with himself.

Only the crimson-faced woman who swears

that Elvis speaks to her through the commode

will challenge him.

They shout absurdities in each other's direction

while anxious pedestrians hurry past,

eager to avoid eye contact.

The pedestrians also carry on a conversation

with themselves,

one which, if audible, would showcase

all of the terror and rage and neuroticism

that mixes into our human predicament.

Vehicle traffic passes with indifference.

Drivers hurl terrible indignities

at their fellow motorists.

A couple stumbles into the road and is nearly

taken out by a tour bus.

The bus collides with an SUV,

underscoring the razor-thin margin

that separates the fortunate from the forsaken.

Each of us is one medical catastrophe,

one financial devastation,

two tragic steps from tipping into the abyss.

So, hold grace for the man on the streetcorner,

grace for the crimson-faced sister,

grace for pedestrians and motorists

and all whose fate balances on the knife's edge.

For you and me, 

hold grace.

Mother's Ilk

Your appearance in the courtyard 

is a pale reflection of season's past 

when you illuminated the morning glories 
with your rapturous charm
and old men at the chess board arose in chorus 
to praise your brightly-colored ensembles.

Now, some hostile years have marched 

over your allure, scarring a landscape marked 

by husband's infidelities,

an ectopic pregnancy, 

Lyme disease,

a breast cancer scare.
  
The hand-woven sweater which seasons ago 
adorned a vibrant figure 
struggles to obscure a shy, defeated form.
  
Your daughters flutter beside you, nimble as a fireflies.
The promise of the day is alight in their eyes.
You smile when their eyes meet yours, 

but not often besides.
  
Your husband pulls the water hose to his pickup truck, 
eyeing the buxom sweater across the way.  

You were once a splendid bride, 
full of laughter and unbounded esteem.  

When we danced on your wedding day

you declared you never knew such euphoria.

"He's The One," you said,

and I spied in your lavender-painted eyes

the hypnotic state that bends lovers

toward forever promises.

I blessed you, 

and I blessed your marriage,

because there is only 

                      this

                      moment 
before the curtain drops 

and one is heard no more.  

Your daughters wave hello, 
exalted in their matching floral-print dress.

You conceal your fractured spirit from them,
yet when they are old enough for shopping malls, 
push-up bras, and boy's lusty stares, 
when they learn of father's affairs, 
will you commend them to hold sacred their precious pearls, 
to value what is divine in them 
and what should never be surrendered?

Or will they suffer the contamination

of mother's soured milk.

**First published in Suspended Magazine