NO TOP DOGS

 DIAGNOSIS

It’s not good but it’s not bad either—
my body assures me it will take care
of everything in between and I refrain
from complaining, at least promising 

to hold my fire as long as I can.
The workers are still jacking up buildings
with a decent rapidity my front row seat
has allowed me to follow from scratch— 

a few peach trees made home by the squatter
birds who refuse to budge despite the noise
from drills and pumps, a stubbornness I admire.
I rearrange books on the shelf and take one

to flip through again, an author I know well,
his longing for justice and the sun sparkling
on the pages, the city he can’t help but love
woven into his body, so perfectly.

BACK

The city lurches forward,
albeit slowly, a bit unsteady.
Most of the people seem
to be hiding around the corners

of buildings waiting for the word
that says all the streets are theirs
again. I pass by the apartment
of an old flame, the outside the same 

as it was years ago. It’s only
for a second, but I wonder if she’s
come back, and I wonder why I do.
What’s normal, when nothing is?

ANOTHER WAR

Since it so often seems
Suffering lasts longer than happiness. 

And if you’re hoping this poem
Will build to a crescendo of wisdom 

I may have to disappoint, no matter
How hard I strive for your approval. 

My wife and I walk down a city avenue,
Pointing at this, pointing at that, 

Talking about this, laughing at that,
The smaller human attributes worthy 

Of preserving, the modest patches of snow
Glowing in the day’s sunlight, everlasting.

NO TOP DOGS

None of us need to rule the world,
tempting as it is to dream so
when it appears to align itself 

against you yet again. It’s enough
when the city breaks out in spring
and apple buds signal the writing 

of fruit on par with the political,
a charm and a certain flourish on
the move that keeps us stumbling 

along, a little wiser for it all.