Snow and Ice and a Poem.

Poetry is lovely at any time, but it can often deepen the mood that the reader may already have. Poetry and art reflect not just the artist but the reader and observer. On my bike ride to campus this morning, as I attempted to stay upright, I thought about all of the work that had to be done today. I felt overwhelmed by the elements and my busy schedule. I fell near Wayne Street because my mind was buried by the junk of life. I would not have fallen if I had been paying attention to the place I was in at that moment, if I had been more aware and present. This poem is about staying up on the bike and being a little more alive in everything we do. That is not why I originally wrote it but, hey, art evolves like everything else.







”no such thing as passionate economics”
she may be seventy or eighty but her hair has been white
since her mid-forties.
the people who would know this are buried on hills spread
through five states. she sits in a purple over-stuffed chair
in a corporate bookstore on her bus route reading a guide on
tuscany.
her lips are moving with words but her voice faints
just the other side of her mouth. the teeth are all hers.
a steady hand. she drinks her half-cafs free
because the business school barista has dreamed of kissing her green eyes
that burn when she whispers her hellos.
he is handsome and embarrassed by wanting to become rich enough
to send her over the sea through the gate of gibraltar
to drink dark wine on sun-warmed hills.


someday, soon, she will not pick up the guide
and his education will have taught him that there is money to be had
in the dreams of old ladies
that he must be more careful when his own eyes close
that everyone is vulnerable when they are alone
and everyone is alone.