where do i park it

in my head I still have
my 52 Chevy pickup truck
that i sold fourteen years ago

was the same make and model
as Phil’s who had the gas station
across the street when i was a kid

where we used to play
while he worked on cars
and i rode in the back when he took
his son and i out to the family farm

i found an old truck like it, loved it
got it back like old and new
it ticked, ticked, ticked

so now where do i park it
in my mind?

leaping leapers - good fortune

i fell, what the hell
washing the car
didn’t fall far
and i rolled

like Batman Senior. jumping out of an airplane
my feet didn’t tangle in the parachute
wasn’t about to break anything on the landing
not with a bucket in the way, not this time

lying on my back wet in driveway water
staying put, looking at the sky, like i oughter
knew i learned my lesson the last time
and that was the - way last time

i figured a clean front fender
wasn’t worth a month in a cast, not again
man, i was computin’ fast
tuck and roll, tuck and roll

now i have to call my friends
tell all the good fortune i’ve captured
or maybe just take a nap instead,
either way, i’m smiling, unfractured

direct, indirect

being a direct descendant
of one hundred fifty ten thousand years
off the Polish isles near the bleak Russian tundra
i hugged a widdle blankie over my shoulder

my french/scotch/irish/cherokee bride
on the other hand, spurned all covers
as one born in the boileroom of the boiler making plant
generates her own heat and some for the city of Minneapolis
and for Pittsburgh

special on the board

on the board two, scrambled with cheese
get the signal, shake off a menu
heavy hitter Nicky takes my order
try to see the newspaper
down the pipe, over the shoulder of
the guy at the table in front of me
on the board it's three for, two opposed,
the ayes have it, no rain today

on deck, waiting my order, making notes
off the board it’s two flips and a tuck
did a flip back and curl into reality
tasted good, grease is good
I like bacon, sipped coffee,
left a buck ride on the table
am I fit to drive?

winky and blinky

winky and blinky out at night
by light of a cheddar moon
laughed til they cried and hung on tight
as they pranced to every tune

hop a diddle they could
crisp and doodle might
doing what they really should
and thusly passed the night

see the hours fly on by
wrapped to the skin in fest
spinning, swimming eye to eye
of course you know the rest

planted on a quiet hill
on the road to the hereafter
some say sometimes when nights are still
you can hear bits of their laughter

poetry masters

oh yes, we’ve poetry masters
like America’s Walt Whitman
who thump covered a lot of bases
green waving fields, lightening flashes
blood red and dead gray fallen soldiers

bubbles of crystal clear rippling streams
by farmer’s long faces and torches
on the global sphere mystery and chants
for ten thousand of thousands of years
forward and back leaping

know how times have changed
for all of us
for in all of his words
of roots, songs, joys, and power,
of fury, nomads, nations, legions, submission,

banners, fires burning, pageants
and frost-mellowed berries
in those cherished times of olde
some lonely dim shadowed snowy eve
with walking staff and collar up

Walt never mentioned
stopping on his way home
to pick up a lotto ticket,
pizza with his favorite topping
or a movie

if here now, today
maybe stop for a pizza and a beer
i don't know, don't think he'd own a TV
and, stewards of the earth,
where'd the clear water go

ain't got money

even though we ain’t got money
i’m so in love with you honey
Kenny loggins wrote that near forty years ago
today i heard the anne murray recording
over the speakers at the festival
where the clock seems wound back years
in the heights
a small Ohio town
that managed to stay that way

this morning to the fire station for pancakes
this afternoon a short block walk
from the single village stop light
to a barbeque downtown

like it was
so it remains
small talk
happy voices
familiar faces
a peaceful village
god bless the little towns