Screwed Up

Face it— 
The more you look 
At what you’re doing 
To yourself each day, 
The more you want to 
Blame the mirror, don’t you 
Dare look the other way. 

Before The Sun Comes Up

Love, no need to ask 
But I’ll tell you anyway— 
Poetry’s about trying 
To tell the difference 
Between nights full 
Of questions and answers 
Begging for the light of day. 

Sure Looks Like It's A Dog's Life

Especially after 
A squall— 

A lot like that home- 
Less mutt lapping 

Up the winter sun- 
Light on the lee- 

Ward side of that derelict 
Wino’s soaked ply- 

Board hovel.

Bedding Down In Communal Winter Lodgings

Safe above 

The nocturnal prowling 
Of neighborhood cats, 
Where once there was one 
Lone small brown sparrow 
Perched every night 

On one of the three 
Forgotten rusty construction 
Guide line nails stuck 
In the stonework near 
The top of our portico’s arch, 

Now there are three, each 
On a nail of its own, 
In like company, their tiny 
Talons locked tight, holding 
Fast to the common dream 

Of outlasting one more night. 

Know Thyself, Poet

You tell yourself you’ll know 
Better the next time and not 
Make the same mistake, yet 

There’s another voice inside 
You telling you by the time 
The next time comes you’ll 

Still be your old self made 
Over in another image, 
Making the same mistake.