Learning How to Moonwalk on a Thursday

It is never too late
to learn how to
moonwalk on a
summer night
as limes dissolve
into the glimmer
of reposado
beneath a moving
canopy of yellow
monarchs. I hope
that we believe
there is always
more dancing
to be done
and at ninety
when you yell,
Slide flat! Then lift!
Then switch!
I will laugh
into my tilted lawn
chair because
after fifty years
of practice, I still
won’t be as good
as you, and it
won’t matter as
I clap while you
glide, slide, lift, switch,
glide, slide, lift, switch
across the grass,
the sequins
of my one white
glove glittering
in the moonlight.

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Slippery Haiku

Navigating a
pre-teen, today as dicey
as the roads outside.

On the drive to school,
we watch the thermometer,
cheering for zero.

Something so simple
draws the chill from everyone,
and the day starts warm.

“When the Lover of Spring Betrays Me”

A collaborative text poem:  My good and lovely friend Melanie texted me today with this title.  She requested a poem to reflect the, ahem, general sentiment of the May weather we have been having.  The below was the resultant poem-in-text…

***

Our coats – they do not work
anymore, for our eager
blood has thinned
with springtime.

Like a cold joke, I am
scraping the window
to the tittering
of birdsong.

No sun, no warm shelter,
no splash of flower
nor scent of wet dark earth,
no walk with friend

or lover.
Fuck you, snowflake, I say.
And the car door
slams.

Alternate Universe on a Friday Night in Ridgway, Colorado

Her long pink scarf
trails a bright wake
across the setting sun
as she screeches to a stop
in her 1968 aquamarine
Camaro convertible.  Jump in,
she says without even looking at me,
and I understand that I
am not supposed to use
the door.  It is still too cold
to have the top down,
but we don’t care
because night belongs
to the rebel soul,
and the streets
are alive with music,
so much music.