not far from here

a lady in a pink jogging suit
stands at the curb.
under one arm, the blonde
wooden crutch she leans on
as if leaving something
behind. the boss she’s tired of
training to be a leader, the ex
husband, deported to England
on charges of fraud, the pensive
fears of her children being
kidnapped.

in her other hand, a hose
and nozzle she sprays
into the street. her brightly
clad fleece legs speckled in
mud, frigid as the tears from her
fingertips that bounce the pavement
in disarray. dark clouds
crowd over her home like testy
rush hour passengers,
while inside family members
huddle, await the news.

determined,
she clutches the running hose
and as we drive by, my son
can only ask, why –
it’s raining out.

---

Fernando would rather be home

the phone calls seemed to go well
all three and a half hours
it’s not as if he
hadn’t done this before
dated women
but in his younger days
before life and death of a marriage
and best friend
resorting to newspaper ads
had not been a working option
now that carnal urge had all but perched
itself on his shoulders
mischievously whispering back and forth between ears
he thought why not
after all, her voice had a certain
Lauren Hutton quality to it
that ripe simplicity
he was partial to

hopes for love at first sight
another hollywood fantasy
crumbled like a roasted marshmallow
caught on fire

shortly after she walked through the door
and their conversation began
he knew
knew he’d rather be home
eating his favorite, grape popsicle
with his knife and fork